


Hotel Road: Coda

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: Took my Boat Down to Hotel Road [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern Era, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Trans Character, warnings will be attached to individual chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 40
Words: 24,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Before the hotel, there were moments across time. Moments where Camelot started to raise her head, reclaim her King and Queen and their knights.Moments that, when held against history, would be near invisible, but without those moments history itself would be different.
Relationships: Bedivere/Kay (Arthurian), Galehaut/Lancelot du Lac, Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon, Isolde the Fair/Tristan (Arthurian), Viviane/Morgan
Series: Took my Boat Down to Hotel Road [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663936
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

It hadn't even been a week since her brother had died.

The smell of his funeral pyre clung to her hair despite washing it again and again and again.

Bedivere – the lone survivor – had disappeared as soon as the funeral pyre had gone out, leaving his sword and armor behind.

He had taken Lancelot's sword instead.

Morgan had thought about trying to find Viviane or Bertilak or one of the legions of youths who'd come to Camelot only to be turned away by Kay's discerning judgment. See if maybe one of them wanted to come in and support her claim to the throne.

She was no King but perhaps, if she could rally the correct support, she wouldn't need to be.

–

She wandered more than sought, the paths outside Camelot's lower towns narrow and grown over in places. Her horse was unused to her touch, periodically stopping when she told it to go and running when she told it to walk, as if to mock her.

She tied it up every time they stopped, not trusting it to stay nearby while she slept.

She talked to the horse – who she'd come to call River – to keep from talking to herself. Talking to herself, she was worried, was the first step down a road she could not return from.

River earned her name for her smooth gate. A young mare who, by the looks of things, was supposed to become a war horse but had not finished training.

Flowing but dangerous if you weren't paying Attention.

River.

–

She carried enough coin – hers and her now-dead brother's – to put herself up at inns when she came to a town and keep River stabled without attracting too many questions.

Once – and only once – someone thought to see if her coin purse was for lifting.

She'd burned him where he stood, charred remains of his hand leaving soot on her purse.

She bought a hunting knife after that, deciding it would be a less attention-drawing method of dispatching anyone else who thought her an easy target.

–

“Excuse me,” she asked a fishmonger after a half-day's journey from the last town she'd stopped at, “do you know in which direction I can find King Pellas' lands?”

“Lady,” he did not look up from his task at hand, “those lands devoured every last person to walk into them.”

“I'll take my chances,” she held firm.

The fishmonger looked up at her with a gaze that seemed to be weighing the core of her very soul. She gazed back, undaunted.

“Take the Northern road and then Listen,” he told her at last, “when the grass is dead and the trees no longer regrow their leaves, trust the water to show you the way.”

She shivered despite herself.

–

The leave stopped appearing before the grass disappeared, but she believed she was on the right path.

River became increasingly anxious as fewer and fewer signs of live showed themselves, but nevertheless pressed on when Morgan asked.

“Strange animal,” Morgan muttered, “I appreciate you, but you are a strange animal.”

She'd heard stories, before, of King Pellas still living, not leaving his castle and allowing for his lands to rot because he could not recover from his defeat.

She'd heard of Knights – Percival and Galahad and others whose names she'd only heard in passing – trying to heal the King in exchange for the Holy Grail. 

Indeed, none of them had ever returned.

Still, with the fracturing of Arthur's lands and court, if nothing else could give her the strength to keep his legacy alive, it would be the Grail.

–

This was a place, she became convinced, outside of both time and space. She'd been riding for what felt like days and yet the sun was high overhead. No grass or trees grew, and the land was flat in all directions.

Nothing even hinted at existing on the horizon.

She pulled River to a halt and dismounted, the dirt dry beneath her feet.

She sank to her knees and let herself mourn – for Arthur, for Morgause, for her nephews she'd never really known. For Igraine. Even for Uther, the bastard who stole her entire life from her. For Camelot. For what had already come to pass.

For what would never come to pass.

For the chances she was wasting trying to find this godforsaken castle of legend.

There was no water by sight or by smell, nothing she could follow or try to put her trust in.

River nudged her shoulder with her muzzle.

“River,” she whispered.

_Trust the water to show you the way._

“Alright girlie,” she said as she hauled herself back into the saddle, “Let's do this.”

–

Night finally fell, and Morgan was asleep before she could contemplate how to tie River up.

She awoke with the first light of the sun, all intrinsic ability to tell time lost.

River was waiting for her.

“Good girl,” she told River as she climbed back into the saddle.

She was so thirsty and her food stores were going to run out.

She wondered, idly, if this was why no one returned from seeking the Grail.

–

When the dehydration finally took hold, she didn't even feel herself fall from the saddle.

–

“Hush,” she heard a voice she thought sounded familiar, “you took a bad fall.”

She tried to ask something but the world was gone from her perception before she could manage it.

–

She spent the coming days – weeks? - fighting with unconsciousness, trying to return to the world. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes another woman was just on the edges of what little perception she had regained. Light blankets covered her entire body but her clothes were gone. The room was cool but not cold, and the walls seemed to be stone.

She had a feeling she was unconscious more than conscious.

–

When she was finally able to sit up, she needed a moment for her vision to come into focus.

She scanned the room – stone walls, a few high, narrow windows, and sparse furniture.

Her dress was draped over a chair, obvious patches covering parts of it.

She remembered falling – it felt like it happened to someone else – and wondered how badly damaged her dress was.

She heard the door opening and tried to jump to her feet.

Pain took over and she crumpled back onto the bed.

“Oh, you're awake,” the same voice that had told her she'd falled came from the doorway, “You must be terribly confused.”

“What?” Morgan managed to croak.

“You've been out for almost two weeks,” the woman came into her field of vision, “even with my magics, I was worried you'd not pull through.”

“...happened?” Morgan managed the second half of her question.

“You collapsed in the middle of the wasted lands,” the woman sat on the bed next to her, more perched than settled, “and your horse found me.”

“River,” Morgan forced herself to unclench her entire body.

“If that's what you're calling her, then yes.”

Morgan sat up slower this time, eyes closed so she wouldn't have to try to deal with the room moving as she moved.

When she was sure she was sitting upright again, she opened her eyes.

“Viviane?” Morgan recognized the woman.

Viviane nodded.

–

It took weeks still for Morgan to be able to walk on her own, her body still healing between her severe hydration and fall from the saddle.

Viviane was with her more often than not, more than happy to discuss anything and everything as Morgan lead the conversation.

Finally, one day when she was relaxing with her head in Viviane's lap, Morgan asked: “Did you know I'd be coming?”

Viviane paused before she answered. “I did not, but I hoped.”

“Why?” Morgan asked.

“Before I answer,” Viviane picked her words carefully, “tell me why you came here.”

“This is King Pellas' castle, yes?” Morgan realized she hadn't asked before. Viviane shook her head no. “Well, I was trying to find the Grail.”

“You were what?” Viviane hoped she'd misheard.

“My brother is dead and Camelot has fallen,” Morgan's voice was flat, “and I can think of no other way to ensure Camelot is not completely destroyed.”

“And if I told you there was another way?” Viviane asked.

“I'd be open to it,” Morgan wasn't about to close off any avenues.

And so Viviane explained the process – giving herself, body and soul, to Avalon so that Arthur and those he would need could return when they were needed most.

Morgan didn't even need time to consider it.

“Yes,” she said.

Viviane smiled.

“I am glad you found me,” Morgan said, “and I am glad to be able to hold space for Camelot, whenever it rises again.” Both statements, she realized, were entirely true.

“I am glad your horse was able to find me,” Viviane replied.

Morgan told Viviane the story of the fishmonger and trusting River as the water.

Viviane laughed. “The only water I know is the lake.”

“I'll trust it, too,” Morgan smiled. Viviane put a careful hand on Morgan's cheek.

Morgan rolled her head to kiss the edge of Viviane's palm.

“Shall we?” Viviane asked.

Morgan rose to her feet. “Lead the way,” she said as she held out her hand.

Viviane took it with a smile so bright Morgan thought of the sun.


	2. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic stirs. Bertilak waits.

Tea, Bertilak had decided almost as soon as the drink had made its way to the island he had the tendency to think of as his, was a drink worth going to war over, even if the warfare had changed so drastically since he's last held a weapon.

“You put too much stock in tea,” Viviane informed him, pulling him from his thoughts, “It's a lovely drink and all, but it's never going to become more fashionable than a good ale.”

Bertilak chuckled and raised his teacup in a _cheers_ gesture. Viviane rolled her eyes.

“Smoother than coffee,” Bertilak said as he took a sip.

“That's because you burn your coffee,” Morgan disagreed, “though I am more fond of both than Viviane here.”

“We could have everything we ever dreamed of in Avalon,” Viviane complained, “and yet, we keep coming to this world for tea.”

“Were that it was just tea,” Bertilak put his cup down with so much force that he chipped the saucer.

Morgan and Viviane froze save for the turning of their heads to gauge where Bertilak was, mentally and physically.

There was no risk of violence, but the deep resentment the centuries had done nothing to quell was on the surface again.

It was Morgan's fault he was tangled up with the waiting part of awaiting Arthur's return and they all knew it.

His life had been fine and his marriage perfect, he thought, until one Gawain showed up, exposing his wife's weaknesses as well as his own.

His wife had been too human to withstand time, and when he'd lost her he swore off human relationships.

Self-protection, he called it.

Were that it stayed that simple.

There was always that moment where resentment flared to anger when the waiting was brought into focus, the exhaustion of keeping watch in two worlds for one King and whichever souls managed to affix themselves to his return surfaced.

They – the three of them, sitting in a house they supposed people normally lived in full-time instead of used as a front because of its foundation being built on a spot where shifting between worlds was easier than usual – knew they would be able to tell when the return process started, knew there was no need to keep popping over to the humans' world to check.

Aside from the issue of the feral magic that was showing itself with increasing frequency.

That, they needed to check on.

Even if they knew there was fuckall they could do about it if it broke free before Camelot rose again.

Tea was completed in silence, Viviane and Morgan unwilling to rub salt into whatever wounds Bertilak was feeling.

They left first, leaving him to his thoughts and tea stash.

It wasn't that he disliked them, not quite. Resented being tied to them, to their shortcomings and ill thought out schemes whose effects rippled across time.

No matter how many times a stone skipped, it had to sink eventually.

These ripples, too, eventually had to come to an end.

What end they would come to, though, even he could not tell. Could a group of humans who almost entirely slaughtered each other in cold blood really come together to do what the gods could not?

Time would tell, and that. That he hated.


	3. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly time for exams and Bedivere is nowhere near ready. Good news for him is help has decided to barge in and drag him along.

Bedivere was decisively not draped dramatically across half of the library table, revision books strewn about and pen nearly out of ink.

He was just...okay, yes, he was doing exactly that, but he could hardly fault himself, could he?

“You alright?” he recognized the voice as belonging to one of his classmates – someone who sat off in the corner towards the front and only spoke when called on, though more out of boredom than not knowing the answers.

“No,” Bedivere grumbled, “how are you not freaking out?”

“It's just A-levels,” his classmate said.

“Just A-levels,” Bedivere knew his tone was mocking, “Yes, just the classes that determine whether of not I can even apply to uni.”

He felt more than saw his classmate sit down next to him.

“What are you having trouble with?”

“All of it,” Bedivere sat up slowly, “Just. All of it.”

“Well there's half your problem. Here.”

Bedivere watched as all of his books were closed with no regard to which page they'd been open to. Then his notebooks. Bedivere made a noise of protest but it did nothing to stop the process.

He watched in mute horror as everything was rearranged.

“Right,” his classmate finally said something else, “which class are you having the most problem with?”

“English of all things,” Bedivere muttered, “What's your name?”

“Everyone calls me K.”

“Like the letter?”

“Exactly like the letter. Now, we're going to revise for forty-five minutes for English and then we're going to get food. We'll figure everything else out from there.”

Bedivere nodded, finding he trusted this K, this classmate he;d never spoken a word to before.

–

It was the fastest forty-five minutes of Bedivere's life, though he was much more interested in K's hands, the way they moved while he explained things in ways Bedivere found he could understand than he was in the material itself.

“Food,” K snapped the book shut, “No revising until after food. Come on, pack up.”

Bedivere did as he was told. K slung his own bag over one shoulder and lead them to the nearest chip shop.

“So do you normally tutor?” Bedivere asked while they waited for their food.

“Nah,” K shook his head, “let one person know you understand shit and all the sudden they're all on ya for help they want but don't need.”

“Did I look like I needed it that badly?” Bedivere dropped his shoulders.

“A bit,” K admitted, “plus I think you're cute so, you know, that helps.”

“I'm -” Bedivere stammered, mouth opening and partly closing a few times without any more words coming out.

“Unless I have entirely misread you in which case yes, you looked like you needed the help,” K was quick to say, side-eyeing the door as if he was going to make a run for it.

_What violence have you faced?_ Bedivere wondered.

“Not at all,” Bedivere reached out to grab K's hand and held it tight, “No, not at all.”

“Ah, thank fuck,” K relaxed and squeezed Bedivere's hand in return.

Neither of them let go.

Bedivere couldn't shake the feeling like he'd just come home.


	4. Thames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for near-drowning

He was going to die.

The thing was, he knew better. He absolutely knew how dangerous the Tames was even in better weather.

The winter coat he'd worn at his mothers insistence was completely waterlogged, the buttons suddenly an esoteric puzzle.

He was doing to die, and it was going to be with lungs full of water.

He took what he was expecting to be his last breath and held it, hoping it might be easier to start shedding his clothes if he wasn't fighting to keep his head above water.

When he felt hands push him above water and to the shores, he was sure this was death and it was soul being dragged to whatever afterlife awaited him.

It wasn't until he vomited a bunch of rancid water and bile he realized he was alive.

He coughed until he thought he was going to lose a lung, and then vomited again, more bile than water this time.

He heard footsteps next to him, looked over, the figure so unfocused he assumed the recognition was due to the freezing air causing him to genuinely lose his mind.

The world flickered, shifting between this life and the first, finally settling on the current one.

“Viviane,” he choked out, “I remember you.”

“Of course you do, young King,” she said with a sad laugh, “I'm sorry. It will get worse before it gets better.”

“Wait,” Arthur tried to stand but couldn't even life himself off the ground.

“Oh my god,” he heard from the sidewalk, “Someone call nine nine nine!”

“Is that a man?” another voice came from above him.

Viviane, he noticed, had disappeared.

He lost consciousness before the ambulance arrived.

–

“You're fortunate,” the doctor who was attending him in the hospital told him.

“What were you thinking?” his mother kept asking.

“You're the dumbest child I've ever had,” his father informed him.

He was, as far as he knew, his father's only child.

But he remembered how well operating on that assumption worked out for him the first life.

If nothing else, his forced stillness in the hospital gave him time to think.

To plot.

To hope the others were out there, too.


	5. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedivere remembers.

Bedivere had finished his final exam of his A-levels.

A weight lifted from his shoulders, gone forever. Replaced almost immediately with anxiety over having to wait for the results, but he heard K's oft-repeated advice of letting things he no longer had control over go.

He tried.

He knew K's last exam wasn't going to be over for another half-hour or so, so he took his time meandering to the chip shop where, a year ago tomorrow, a relative stranger had told him he was cute and held his hand while they waited for their food.

It had been the best day of his life thus far and he and Kay had become inseparable, so madly in love that he didn't feel like he was getting ahead of himself when he considered staying by this man until the end of days.

The chip shop had since been bought out and redone completely inside and out, but he still thought of it as their chip shop. The place had only re-opened under the new name and such maybe a few weeks ago, and they'd been so busy with revisions and, well, each other, that they hadn't been yet.

He knew K well enough to know he'd be done his exam first and run the entire way to the shop, so Bedivere didn't feel bad about grabbing two menus and securing a table before the dinner rush started to trickle in.

He was perhaps on his third time reading through the menu when K came through the door, a thin sheen of sweat on his face the only hint that he had, indeed, run the whole way.

“Oi!” K waved to him from the door.

Bedivere looked at K – really looked at him – and felt like his K was flickering in and out, his tall, proud stride over to the table, shoulders back and head held high melting with a Knight of similar build and poise marching to distant drums.

“Of course it's you,” Bedivere whispered to himself, “it's always you.”

Which meant, in turn, that he, too, was tethered to another life, one once shared with a much older, much more battle-hardened man but by every god Bedivere could think to swear to, he was never, never letting this man out of his sight again if he didn't absolutely have to.

His vision settled back solidly on the present when K – Kay, of course it was Kay, found a tie to his _NAME_ even across time and space – was maybe a stride and a half away from the table.

“You're here,” Bedivere breathed.

“Of course I'm here,” leaned down to give him a kiss on the temple before sitting down across from him, “anything look good?”

“I'm torn between the bacon burger and the chicken filet,” Bedivere did his best to act like nothing had changed.

“We can get both and split them,” Kay offered.

“You're not even going to look at the menu?” Bedivere asked.

“I trust your judgment,” Kay shrugged, “you're dating me, after all.”

Bedivere laughed, long and loud.

The feeling of coming home when he'd held Kay's had for the first time made so much sense now.

He had, indeed, come home.


	6. Finding North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kay receives a phone call he wishes he hadn't.

Kay was almost not home to receive the call.

Back up a step.

He and Bedivere had graduated uni and moved in together almost immediately, and that was two years ago.

Bedivere always left for work well after Kay, but that meant Kay came home much earlier and had some time to himself. Besides that, the morning catering shift meant more prep and than deliveries, and Kay greatly preferred orchestrating in the kitchens to dealing with new people.

He'd almost gone for a drink with his team, a celebration round for the news of Kay's impending promotion, but he'd decided to wait until all the paperwork was in.

“Hello?” Kay picked up after the second ring, “Yes, this is he. Yes. My partner, yes. I'm his only emergency contact, yes. What?”

Kay nearly dropped the phone. He definitely did not put it back on the receiver.

He couldn't drive fast enough.

The hospital staff was kind enough to direct him to the room Bedivere would be in once he was out of surgery. 

He watched the clock, let the second hand consume his soul as it bled into an hour, then two.

Somewhere in the third hour, Bedivere was brought in.

“He's still under the anesthesia,” one of the nurses explained, “and will be in and out on pain meds for a while.”

People came and went while Kay stayed in the room, perched on the tiny folding chair they'd provided him, trying to remember everything he was told.

There's been an accident, some sort of equipment failure.

Wrong, place, wrong time.

Sir, overnight visits are for family only.

Right arm needed to be amputated to about three inches below the elbow.

Sir, you need to eat.

He'll survive, but only time will tell how he'll fair without his arm.

You can't sleep in the chair like that. You're going to hurt yourself.

We'll make an exception since he doesn't have anyone else listed, but you have to stop telling the other nurses you're not family. Not everyone gets it.

It's normal to need to stay in the hospital for a few weeks after an injury like this.

You need to eat.

Kay woke from a brief nap in a cold sweat, remembering the betrayal on Bedivere's face the night he'd walked away from him, away from Camelot, after his last fight with Arthur.

“Never again, he wept as he promised Bedivere's unconscious form, “Never, never again.”

–

Bedivere's release from the hospital was a frightening thing for both of them. Bedivere had been compensated nicely for his injury, but it felt like hush money.

Kay drove as carefully as he could, not wanting to jostle his partner.

Bedivere slept most of the first week home. It was slow, for a while, the pain and the recovery keeping him down more than he would like. kay got over-protective sometimes, causing Bedivere to snap and distance himself.

 _You're still you_ , Kay tried to find the words to tell him, _You're still so you it hurts._

Words kept failing. Fights kept happening. Bedivere adjusted to being home for days on end and Kay worked overtime to keep the payment from running out before Bedivere found a way to return to work.

He couldn't find a construction job that would take him, even with his Civil Engineering degree.

Bedivere withdrew when he was particularly frustrated. Kay would sit on the other side of the room and try to read, giving Bedivere his space but still being present.

They touched less, talked less, both confused and scared and unsure how to go back to the way things were.

Gods, there were few things Kay wouldn't give to know how to help.

–

Kay came home one early afternoon to find dinner already on the table.

“It's chicken and yellow rice,” Bedivere called from the kitchen, “steamed veg need, like, another three minutes, I'm shit for timing.”

“It smells delicious!” Kay called back as he toes off his shoes.

He wasn't going to cry, he told himself.

He put his backpack on the ground and shrugged his chef's jacket off, not bothering to make sure it remained uncreased.

He ran to the kitchen, eager.

Bedivere had the tray of steamed veg in one hand, in the middle of lifting it from the pot to the sink to let any excess water clinging to it drip off before seasoning.

“You look delicious,” Kay informed him.

“Dinner first,” Bedivere grinned, “wouldn't want dinner to go cold.”

“I think it's a sacrifice I could live with,” Kay reached out a hand to touch the top of Bedivere's hip.

Kay's stomach growled.

The traitor.

Bedivere laughed for the first time since he'd come home from the hospital. It was a fragile thing, but genuine, hopeful.

“Dinner first,” Kay agreed, “then dessert?”

“Yes,” Bedivere turned to face Kay, “yes.”

He kissed Kay, a chaste thing, but he could feel Kay's lips smile against his own.

“I've missed you,” Kay told him.

“I've missed me, too,” Bedivere found it hurt like hell to say aloud.

“I love you,” Kay whispered.

“Always,” Bedivere promised.

Kay realized, as he sat down and waited for Bedivere to finish cooking, that trying to return to the way things were was a fool's errand.

It was time to point their life together in the direction things were going.


	7. The Best of Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All she wanted was to make her caffeinated beverages at home in the morning.

Guinevere needed an espresso machine.

Okay, she didn't need-need one, but it would be nice. And probably save her money in the long run.

She'd just moved to Portland and hadn't planned on staying there long – just long enough to put her business degree to use and then move somewhere with a higher trees-to-people ratio in favor of the trees.

Back to the task at hand. She could daydream about fewer people later.

“Okay,” she had the two finalists in front of her, “you're cheaper and have a higher capacity, but you claim to do things faster.”

She put a hand on each and started drumming her fingers on both of them, deep in her own head.

“Having trouble, ma'am?” the clerk asked.

“In general or over this?” she joked.

“Over this, I suppose,” the clerk didn't realize it was a joke. Guinevere sighed.

“If I'm looking for one that I'm going to be the only one using but I'm going to use it at least twice a day, which one's going to be the better value?” she asked.

“Uh, let me get my manager?” the clerk shuffled off.

She knew she could be intimidating – she'd heard as much time and time again growing up – but she wasn't particularly trying to keep people away from her at this particular juncture...especially someone she probably did need help from.

Guinevere turned her attention back to the machines.

“Capacity and price, time,” she muttered, “Price, time, price, time. Money is relatively fixed but time doesn't have a pricing guide. Fuck.”

She crossed one arm over her chest and rested her other hand on her chin, lips in a slight pout.

She'd put less thought into moving to this particular city than she was putting into this.

But, she supposed, you couldn't just throw a dart at coffee machines. Or, at the very least, it would be highly frowned upon and she'd be asked to leave the store without making a purchase.

She heard the clerk before she saw him, his shoes loud on the wood floor.

“My manger says the one on your right,” the clerk said as he returned.

“Perfect, thanks,” Guinevere picked up both machines. The clerk made a few startled noises but decided against asking if he could help her. She put the one she wasn't getting back where she's gotten it and then walked the one that had been recommended up the the register.

“Oh, yes!” another customer stopped walking to admire Guinevere's decision, “Honey, that one is the queen of espresso machines!”

“Perfect for a queen like me,” she joked.

It wasn't a joke, she realized almost immediately.

The memories of her time at Arthur's side – her time at Camelot's Queen – came back to her in the span of less than a heartbeat, as if they'd always been a part of her.

Perhaps they had.

She shook off her shock, unwilling to let the force of the thing hit her in public.

“Honey you look a queen,” the stranger said with a kind laugh.

“It's the tennis shoes, isn't it?” Guinevere found her sense of humor first.

The rest of the transaction passed without incident.

“We are going to be the best of friends,” she told the box her machine was in.


	8. Jersey Highway Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan sets Arthur on the path he needs to be on, but there is nothing kind about her methods.

Arthur was alone. Again.

In a different country this time.

“Wait!” he yelled, waving his arms as his sister drove away, “No, don't -”

She was gone.

He was alone.

Other cars rushed past, some laying on their horns as their tires splashed cold, gray slush in his general direction.

It hadn't been quite so bad when Viviane left him on the banks of the Thames, the shock keeping him numb, giving him more time to process.

That had been an alone he could process.

When his father died of a heart attack when he was nineteen and his mother took her own life less than two weeks later, that had been an alone he could process, kind of. It took years and a lot of therapy, but he'd dealt with it well enough to go back to University, get his degree, start a life of his own and only allow that particular brand of alone to haunt him at the end of the day.

He pulled his jacket around him and started walking.

Someone, eventually, stopped beside him.

“Hey, kid!” the driver yelled through a rolled-down window, “Where you goin'?”

Arthur pulled the train ticket out of his pocket.

“Portland,” he squinted at the print, the cold, misty rain making it hard to see.

“That's a long, long way from here,” the driver informed him, “Why don't you hop in before someone runs you over?”

Arthur climbed in the car before he could remind himself why this was a horrible idea.

The man drove slowly, gave Arthur time to get his seatbelt on.

“Vents are adjustable,” the stranger said.

Arthur pointed every vent he could reach at his face and put his hands directly on the vents.

“Where're your gloves?” the man asked.

“Don't have any,” Arthur told the truth.

Arthur had dealt with a lot of being alone, moreso when you added his first life to this one.

But to have his sister, the first other member of Camelot, show up, tell him to get ready to get on a plane, only to dump him – almost literally - out of her car with only a _the ticket's in your pocket, good luck_?

That was a type of alone he hadn't dealt with.

Couldn't deal with.

“Tell you what,” the stranger's voice was kind, “I need to get some groceries and stuff for the kids' before they get off of school for Christmas break. Let's get you some gloves and figure out where you're going, alright?”

Arthur sobbed.

–

He wound up staying with the man and his family – a wife, their five kids, two dogs, and one cat Arthur couldn't tell if it lived there or was just visiting – through Christmas and into the new year.

They treated him like one of their own – never asked for his story, never demanded anything of him.

He'd spent the first three days in a sort-of shock, crying himself to sleep and waking in a dazed state.

Eventually, he knew, he had to leave.

“How can I repay your kindness?” he asked as he was dropped off at the train station.

“When you're doing well for yourself,” the man said, “remember what it felt like, and pay it forward.”

The man wished Arthur well and drove off before Arthur could ask what he meant.

This alone, though, didn't feel quite as empty.

Arthur felt ready to discover what was waiting for him in Portland.


	9. Of the Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot will always be drawn to the water.

Lancelot had just finished grad school a month prior.

San Francisco seemed like the best place – relatively close to college but far enough it was a new city.

Close enough to the ocean the city had the type of life to it his middle-of-nowhere, landlocked hometown couldn't have even dreamed of.

He'd landed a job as a secretary to one of the downtown dental offices, desperate for money and a job.

This was not where he wanted to be. Not with his life, anyways.

The city itself may yet turn out to be alright.

When he woke up feeling off, he attributed it to the stress of all the changes, all the uncertainty.

Showered.

Got dressed.

Went to work.

Got home.

Microwaved dinner.

Went to sleep knowing he'd repeat it the next day.

He had more and more trouble concentrating as the weeks went on. When he started seeing things out of the corner of his eye that weren't there, hearing whispers, he feared he'd lost his mind.

He called out of work one day, the world too loud, too in everything he tried to do, tried to think.

He drew a hot bath and dropped one of those little oil pods he'd had shoved at him as a sample. At this point, he was willing to try anything.

He fell asleep in the bath, and only realized it because the water was cold.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “that could have been dangerous.”

He took a deep breath, held it.

Submerged himself as much as possible.

Heard and felt the water rush into his ears, nose.

Opened his eyes.

And _remembered._

“Lancelot of the fucking Lake,” he said to himself as he rose to his feet, “God. If the others are here I'm not explaining to them this time around I'm the knight of the goddamned bath tub.”

He took no comfort in the revelation, but as he climbed out of the tub, he realized he'd carry Arthur's banner, costs be damned.


	10. Portland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur goes to find what's waiting for him at the other end of the train ticket.

It took the train days to reach Portland.

How many, Arthur couldn't remember. He'd spent most of them staring out the window of the observation car, watching this new country pass him by.

He shared a sleeper car with people whose names he'd already forgotten and faces he knew he would forget soon.

Stepping onto the platform didn't feel any different, didn't resonate as if he had suddenly been set on the right path.

He wandered around, let a guy on a tandem bike take him to the nearest mall for the price of a six-pack of beer, decided there was no where he needed to be, wandered into the mall.

Almost immediately walked into someone.

“Watch it!” a voice came from the other side of the oversized box with legs.

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered and stepped aside.

She glared at him as she walked to her car for good measure.

“Wait,” she put the box on the ground before she could drop it.

“Jenny,” Arthur breathed.

–

It hadn't even been a question if Arthur was coming back to Guinevere's apartment.

The question was if they could keep their hands off each other long enough to get inside.

“I never thought I'd regret buying an espresso machine,” Guinevere said as soon as she set the thing on the counter, “What, not even going to offer to carry it for your Queen?” she teased.

“The first time around you would have broken my wrist for offering,” Arthur let out a shaky laugh, “Can't say I'm in a hurry to find out if that's stayed constant.”

“It's really you,” Jenny hugged him, “It's really, really you.”

“And it's you,” Arthur held her against him and kissed the top of her head, “Christ, Jenny, it's really really you.”

“What happened to you, Art?” she could feel his sorrow with every breath he took.

He told her, no details spared.

“Fuck,” was all she said when he finished.

“Maybe once I've got my bearings a little better?” Arthur tried for a joke.

Guinevere laughed but gave him a playful swat just the same.

–

He stayed.

It was a who, not a what, waiting for him in Portland.

Guinevere was the who.

“What do you think is in our future?” she asked him one night as they laid, still tangled in the sheets.

“I don't know,” he answered honestly, “but I'm not afraid of it this time.”


	11. Flowers for Rememberance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kay would give anything to have a life with Bedivere.

It had been a year and a half since the accident.

A year and a half since the most terrifying day of Kay's life, this one or last.

Eighteen months, nine days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes since he saw the pain on Bedivere's face the night he'd left Camelot.

He was absolutely counting; he'd spent every minute since either worried about Bedivere, worried about making ends meet, or wondering if Bedivere would remember, too.

Even if Bedivere didn't, if this was some sort of punishment for his actions the first life, he'd take it. He'd take it and make it his own, every moment, every opportunity.

Which was why he'd picked up flowers on his way home.

Pink carnations, sweet pea, and white heather.

Remembrance, pleasure, and wishes coming true.

Something about the long day at work had made him more thankful than usual he'd have Bedivere to come back to. Even with Bedivere's fretting over not being able to find a job, home was always, always calmer than work.

Of course he wound up in the hospitality industry. He would never escape the kitchens.

He knew their door would be unlocked – it always was when Bedivere was home – so he entered without even reaching for his keys.

“Love!” Kay called into the house as he kicked his shoes off, “I'm home early.”

No response.

Kay checked the bedroom first.

Bedivere was asleep. Relief flooded Kay.

“Hey,” Kay crouched down by the bedside, “Hey, I'm home.” He was still holding onto the flowers, still had his coat on.

“Hmn,” Bedivere woke slowly, “Flowers?”

“Flowers,” Kay told him, “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, just tired,” Bedivere stretched, “Sometimes the pain meds, you know.”

Kay nodded in sympathy.

“I think they've worn off by now,” Bedivere sat up slowly. Kay rose to his feet and then sat next to Bedivere, “just lingering tired.”

“Do you want me to start dinner?” Kay offered.

“Are you sure?” Bedivere hesitated, “You work in the kitchens all day.”

“Positive,” Kay handed Bedivere the flowers, “it's different cooking at home.”

“You're always in the kitchens,” Bedivere teased, reflexive.

“Say that again?” Kay heard _something_ in Bedivere's voice, something that echoed back centuries.

“Uh,” Bedivere realized he'd spoken a very, very old English, and tried again, only to have it come out in the wrong language again.

“Always, huh?” Kay asked in modern English.

“You remember?” Bedivere almost dropped the flowers.

“ _You_ remember??” Kay cried, “I – gods – I didn't know if...”

“I was so worried,” Bedivere tried to form a sentence.

“If you didn't remember, I didn't want to -” Kay picked up.

“Christ,” Bedivere gripped Kay and held him tight.

“No, just me,” Kay's reply was a reflexive one, “Fuck, hang on,” Kay wiped the tears out of his eyes, then out of Bedivere's.

–

They caught each other up while they cooked dinner. Bedivere secured an oversized cup for the flowers and made a promise to himself to find a proper vase in the morning.

“Huh,” was all Kay had left to say when they finally sat down for dinner.

“I can't believe we've been together for over three years,” Bedivere had more words come together.

“This changes a lot,” Kay said and then quickly added, “but in ways I'm glad it changes.”

Bedivere offered Kay a small, contented smile before picking up his fork.


	12. Leaving Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lamorak remembers. 
> 
> Change comes at a price.
> 
> CW: Child abuse - physical, verbal

Lamorak watched his open bag of chips disappear out of his field of vision, but he couldn't find it in him to be bothered by it.

“I don't know,” Lamorak frowned at his textbook, “it just seems wrong.”

“It's medieval literature based off even older folk stories based on that era's equivalent of urban legends,” his friend rolled her eyes, “of course it's wrong.”

“No, I mean,” Lamorak made a frustrated sound, “something about Morgause and Lamorak and Gaheris specifically just seems wrong.”

“It **is** incredibly fucked up,” another friend agreed.

Lamorak made another frustrated noise but dropped it.

“You coming to Pride this year?” the first friend asked, mouth full of chips.

At least he knew where his food went.

“As if I'd miss it,” Lamorak laughed, “Lord knows mom may have a heart attack.”

“Her perfect little son, corrupted by all the queers at his public school,” the second friend said in a falsetto voice, hands over their heart in a mocking gesture.

Lamorak laughed, giving everyone else permission to laugh as well.

“College starts next year,” there was nothing but relief in Lamorak's voice, “I'm never going home again.”

“Internships all over the world?” the second friend asked.

“And semesters abroad,” Lamorak was hoping, “at sister colleges.”

“Fuck,” his first friend checked her watch, “I have practice in ten.”

“Which means I have rehearsal in ten,” his second friend was already on their feet. Friend three, who Lamorak knew also had rehearsal, was already running off.

“Good luck!” Lamorak called after them before returning his attention to the passage he was supposed to have read by now. Now that he was alone, he hoped he could get _something_ read before he had to go home and listen to his mother scream at him for existing.

If it was a good night.

He fished a pen and new bag of chips out of his bag before he started spacing out as he underlined some parts that seemed important.

He got to Morgause's name and started crossing it out. With each harsh mark he felt less and less like he had ever known anything about himself.

When he was able to focus again, he's made a hole in the page as well as the two pages after it.

“Ah,” he frowned, “it seems wrong because some things **don't** change.

He closed his book, shoved it in his back without ceremony, and started walking, pen and chips left behind.

_What if it could change?_ he asked himself. 

He'd meant, _'what if I was different so that my own mother tolerated me?'_ but instead that question opened the floodgates of memory.

He sat on the nearest retaining wall and waited for his mind to clear enough to form a thought he recognized as his own again.

He was never quite a part of things – this life or at court – be always just on the fringes. Watching, where everyone else was participating.

He wasn't the only one. He couldn't be.

All of the sudden traveling the world seemed like something he needed to do his entire life, not just during college.

His legs were taking him to the guidance counselors' office almost on their own volition.

“Can I help you?” the sweet, older woman who had been filling in for the secretary for something like three decades asked.

“Uh,” Lamorak faltered before he found his voice, “yeah. Two things. I want to talk about changing majors to a college I've already need accepted to, and I'd like to file a police report.”

The woman's face fell as she stood up and told him to follow her.

–

Lamorak told the counselor everything, then the police everything again.

His injuries were photographed, cataloged.

He would up sleeping on the floor of the police office while he waited to hear what would become of him.

It was only two months until he turned eighteen, so he decided he'd do his best to sleep on whoever's couch was open to him instead of enter protective custody.

“It's a rough life you've chosen, kid,” one of the officers warned him.

“It's been a rough life even before I made any choices,” Lamorak snapped and left.

The spring air hit him like a wall, the bright sun, the crispness of it all so out of sync with everything he'd been through.

He started walking towards school.

He would never, never go home again.

But maybe he could find some souls as lost as he was.


	13. Safe Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain wants to fly.

Gawain was lined up for a motorbike race.

Not a legal one, but that had never mattered. It was part of the thrill.

The race, like every one he'd been in, was at night. The young woman acting as the flagger stood in front of the starting line, sign firmly in both hands, smile pasted onto her face, anxiety about the fifteen people on motorbikes about to speed past her etched around the corner of her eyes.

She held the sign aloft.

Everyone took off.

Gawain broke ahead early, using his smaller stature and slimmer bike and general lack of fear to weave in and out of the pack.

He got about a kilometer out and killed his lights to reduce the chance of being seen from a distance.

In the morning, he'd be back to being as close to a regular University student as he ever was. But that wasn't who he was right now.

Races like this, so far ahead, he wasn't even a who any more.

He was flying.

He hit a branch he hadn't seen and was sent flying. 

Landed.

Skidded a ways before he was able to start rolling, barely coming to a stop before he hit a cluster of trees.

The world was dark, even for night time. He tried to take an inventory of himself, tried to call for help.

For the first time in his life, being so far ahead of everyone else was a curse.

“Hey,” a voice said. He couldn't lift himself up enough to turn to its location, “you're alive but you're badly hurt.”

Gawain tried to say he knew, but all that came out was a croak. He tried to get his arms and legs under him so he could push off the ground, but couldn't.

“Easy,” the voice said, “I've got you.”

Gawain found he couldn't respond.

“I'm sorry,” the voice was very clearly behind him, “both for what needs to be done, and that you will not know what's happened until much later.”

Gawain had a dim awareness of being scooped off the ground by two impressively strong arms before the pain finally hit.

–

When Gawain's world came back into focus, he was back in his dorm room, still in his racing outfit. The protective outer layer was ripped in more places than it should have been for him to be in his dorm and not an emergency room or worse.

His helmet was on his desk with horrific scratches across the top. The visor was shattered.

Physically, though, he felt fine. Maybe a little sore, but fine.

He ran his fingers through his hair and found it a little tender, but still nothing that

There was a note on his desk in scrawled penmanship that read, **I am truly sorry, my little hawk.**

He flew again, for a moment: safe in Bertilak's arms, bathed in the healing waters of Avalon as his consciousness faded in an out.

Safe, headed back to the tiny room he called his.

Safe on his bed, lulled back to sleep by murmurs he couldn't call to memory beyond their cadence.

Then he was back on Earth, impossibly alive.

He threw up in his trash can.


	14. Fighting Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bors makes plans to adopt a pair of children. He just has to find them first.

He had never been much for conventional learning, so when his instructor asked if he wanted to come for some more focused studying at his friend's bar before it opened, he hadn't thought twice before agreeing.

This was a practical exam anyways.

The man he was facing had opted to dodge past him, hoping the speed would buy him enough time to get the upper hand.

Bors whirled around on his heel and caught a fist before it hit him. He lead the man down, fist-first, the sound of jaw hitting tile unmistakable echoing in the otherwise quiet bar.

Bors whooped, a thing so wild it was nearly feral. 

His opponent groaned and rubbed his jaw gingerly, checking to see it still moved, then running a finger around the inside of his mouth to check the status of his teeth.

“Good!” a voice from the sidelines – his instructor - called, “You will make it yet.”

“I sure hope so,” Bors replied, “I cannot see myself working an office job.”

“Again,” the instructor said.

The other man groaned and tried to rise back to his feet. His legs wobbled.

Bors reached out a hand, an offer of help. It was grasped, the other man pulling, using Bors' sturdiness to help him find his own again.

“Always kind. even when you have the right to gloat,” his fellow student said.

The praise felt familiar.

Memory hit him harder than any punch he had ever received.

“It is the right thing,” Bors knew he had said those worse before. Another life, another place, another man, and yet the same man as he was when and where he stood.

A Grail. Two men – barely children – in his charge, so terrified and so unfamiliar with how cruel the world was capable of being.

He could not teach them the kind thing, but he could teach them the right thing.

“Ready!” his instructor bellowed.

Bors never felt less ready for anything in his life.

–

Bors won again.

And again.

And a forth time before the instructor decided it wasn't going to get any better for the other student.

“You fought different today,” his instructor noted, “like something deeper than bone has shifted within you.”

“Perhaps,” Bors said, “perhaps.”

–

Once he got home, he read until his body broke down to sleep.

When he woke up again, he kept reading.

Every book, article, children's picture book he could find on the Holy Grail, he got a hold of it. He bought, downloaded, and on one memorable occasion stole everything he even heard whispers of existing.

It became his new quest.

–

Once he'd exhausted everything he'd found, he felt no closer to answers than during his fight at the bar.

If he was not in practice, asleep, or upkeeping the minimal amount of social interaction he needed to keep people from worrying, he was trying to figure out what to do next.

This time, he knew, he would do everything in his power to protect Galahad and Percival from the world that held no space for them.


	15. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always lions.

Yvain was in the middle of South Africa, volunteering in a park where orphaned lions who couldn't be released spent their days.

He lived with a group of volunteers whose lives revolved around the big cats.

“Morning,” one of his bunk mates grumbled as they passed each other in the hall near the bathroom.

“Look alive!” Yvain called over his shoulder, “It's cub time!”

Every morning was cub time.

–

There was been three cubs brought in recently – two seized in a raid and one from a private owner who realized he was in over his head.

“There's a good girl,” Yvain said to the cub he was handling, slapping her hindquarters with enough force to ensure he wouldn't be mistaken for an insect.

She rolled onto her side and tried to play with him.

“I'm going to lose a hand like this,” he told her as he patted her some more.

She almost seemed to understand, keeping her paws far away from him.

“Hey, come on, cub time's over!”

“Coming!” Yvain took a few extra moments to disengage the cub.

“Behave,” he whispered to her before he left for the more labor-intensive work

–

“Should be near here,” his managed said as he cut the golf cart's engine.

Someone had reported damage to one of the interior fences, and it was Yvain's job to check the validity of the claims and see if it was caused by weather, animal, or people.

If it was people, he decided, he'd hunt _them_ for sport.

His manager stayed in the golf cart and watched, but Yvain hardly noticed his manager's presence.

The biggest male in the park was stalking him.

Yvain could feel the lion before he could hear it, so he turned towards the sensation.

The lion took four running steps and stopped, head tall and proud. They locked eyes.

Yvain couldn't tell his lives apart for a moment. He hit the ground like he had been kicked in the chest.

He lion roared but did not move.

'I am here,' the roar seemed to say, 'and now, so are you.'

–

“I've never seen a lion act like that,” his managed told everyone else over dinner, “Like, I'm surprised he didn't piss himself.”

Yvain couldn't find a way to say that he'd had his entire understanding of the world, time, and the afterlife shifted.

“Not my fault you pissed yourself once and now wish that on the rest of us,” Yvain said instead.

He knew he only had six months left at this sanctuary, but any questions he'd had about what he was doing with the rest of his life were answered earlier in the day.


	16. Save me, San Francisco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always, always the water.

Galehaut was going to jump off the San Francisco pier, just to say he'd been on an adventure.

Something was missing, something he couldn't put his finger on. Life had gotten dull and the usual things he'd found enriched his life lacked that same joy. He kept trying more and more things he knew he wasn't supposed to do, legally or for safety reasons, trying to see if any of them had that same spark.

He had lived in this city – a city that was supposed to be alive, hold so much promise – his entire life, only to find it empty.

To find it lacking.

He wasn't ready to give up, on himself or the city, but he wasn't sure how to move forward, how to do much besides stagnate.

“Alright,” he said to himself, “just a swim. No shoes, just swim trunks and a t-shirt.”

He noticed someone else on the pier and realized if he took his swim now he'd be asking to get arrested. Probably.

He stilled, waiting to see what would happen.

The figure kept walking closer. Galehaut stood still.

“Goddamnit,” Galehaut said under his breath before pointedly looking at the horizon.

“You local?” the newcomer asked Galehaut when he got in normal talking distance.

“Why?” Galehaut didn't answer the question.

“I'm thinking of building a hotel,” the stranger told him, “right on that plot for sale. But I don't know if it's actually a good area or I just think it is because I've spent my life until now land-locked.”

“It's not a bad area,” Galehaut conceded, “Geographically, anyways. Not much to do, but I suppose any city's boring when you've lived in it long enough.”

“Maybe you just need someone new to explore it with,” the stranger shrugged.

“Are you offering,” Galehaut kept his eyes trained on the spot where the water met the sky.

“If you're accepting,” the stranger's tone took on a lilt.

“You're bold,” Galehaut finally looked at him.

Galehaut nearly fell off the pier anyways.

Lancelot grabbed him by the forearm, steadying him.

When his world finally stopped spinning, Galehaut asked, voice tight and words heavy with the fear of being wrong, “What if I want to explore it with someone I'm more familiar with,” he paused, “ **Lancelot**?”

“Oh thank fuck,” Lancelot hugged Galehaut tight.

“What are you doing here?” Galehaut asked, the whole world suddenly feeling so real it entered Uncanny Valley territory.

“Actually looking to build a hotel,” Lancelot sounded winded, like he'd been running, “but, uh, right now it's a bit further from my mind that usual.”

Galehaut laughed, a free sound.

Perhaps there was life in San Francisco yet.


	17. Sing it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinadan lives again.

Dinadan had agreed to come to karaoke night for his friend's birthday, but if he tried to convince anyone he didn't love singing, they'd've called his bullshit before he even finished the sentence.

Still, the fact that he only knew two people in the entire bar had him just out of his element.

He nursed his drink, not willing to damage his vocal cords faster than he needed to. 

“You're up,” an absolutely stunning woman nudged him, “Knock 'em dead!”

“I will give them **life** Dinadan declared. The laugh from beside him belonged to an equally stunning man.

“It's my party,” the woman said, “I say dead.”

“Oh my god,” Dinadan laughed, “You signed me up for Bon fucking Jovi, didn't you?”

“Go,” the man shoved him.

Dinadan went, laughing, just a hair past tipsy.

He grabbed the microphone and his lives blurred together, a symphony of color and sound and feeling.

War. Violence. A life he never wanted but as soon as it was bestowed upon him he found he couldn't leave it behind.

Beauty, filtering through the anger that masqueraded as humor and a devil-may-care-attitude.

Hope, even at the end, that everything would find a way to come together. That, despite the storms, the light would return.

He nearly missed the beginning of his song.

The voice that came out was that of a sixth century bard who'd wanted so badly to see more art than war.

–

“That was amazing!” his friend – the birthday one – fawned over him when he sat back down, “Oh, man, you've been holding back on us for **years** , what the hell man?”

Judging by the uptick in excited chatter in the bar, he'd done _something_ while he was trying to cope with his memories.

“I'm going to go get more drinks,” she said before disappearing.

“That,” his friend leaned over to purr in his ear, “was a performance worthy of a King's audience, _Sir Dinadan_.”

Dinadan froze, eyes wide, every nerve on his body suddenly electrified.

“And while there is not King here tonight, I want you to know you had an appropriately appreciative audience.”

“Palamedes?” Dinadan said so quietly it would have been lost to the noise had the other man sat back up at all.

“I thought it was you,” Palamedes told him, “but I wasn't sure.”

“I just -” Dinadan's words failed him for the first time in history.

“The memories will take time to settle in,” Palamedes told him.

“Gods,” Dinadan nearly sobbed.

Under the table, he gripped Palamede's hand like a lifeline.

–

Dinadan woke up the next morning with Palamedes on his couch.

“So uh,” Dinadan said as he woke the other Knight up, “I can make breakfast?”

“Can you cook this time?” Palamedes said to his pillow more than Dinadan.

“Do I look like I'm starving?” Dinadan laughed, “And you know what I make. Like hell I could afford to eat out.”

“True,” Palaemedes rolled onto his side, “You're really here.”

“Yeah,” Dinadan's laugh faltered, shaky, “You are, too, it seems.”

“The world feels less empty,” Palamedes said, “less vast and unattainable, now that you're here.”

“Keep saying things like that and I'll think you're flirting with me,” Dinadan clapped Palamedes on the shoulder, “Eggs and sausage?”

“Chicken sausage?” Palamedes clarified, “And come now, I know how you feel about romance.”

“Beef sausage, if that's alright,” Dinadan checked the package, “Romance was a political movement designed to dethrone Kings.”

“No pork?” Palamedes asked, “and perhaps at first, but I will argue it's changed a good bit since our first lives.”

“Uh,” Dinadan scanned the ingredients, “nope, just beef, a bunch of preservatives, and maple flavor.”

“Good,” Palamedes made a relieved sound, “though at some point in the future I will teach you to cook from scratch.”

“Be patient with me,” Dinadan asked him, unsure if he was talking about learning to cook or the reframing the world.

“Always,” Palamedes promised him.


	18. Enough.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agrivane has never been enough for anyone.

Agrivane sat at the computer in the far corner of the lab, chair pushed all the way back and forehead on the very edge of the desk.

There was less than three days until the end of the semester and he had something closer than three weeks of work left on this project.

He was the one of the last two students left and the lab closed in ten minutes.

Procrastination was going to be the death of him one day, if nothing else got around to killing him first.

“Have you considered another major?” his professor asked the student a few chairs down from him.

“I can figure this out,” the other student gritted out.

“See that you do,” his professor's voice was tight, “I will not have my reviews go poorly because you're too damned stubborn to admit when you've failed.”

Agrivane's entire bode tensed up. He could feel himself ready to snap.

“I'm doing my best,” the other student said weakly.

“Your best isn't good enough,” the professor said matter-of-factly.

Agrivane was on his feet before he realized it.

“Young sir **sit down**. There's no need to get yourself in trouble because one of your classmates doesn't realize when he isn't good enough.”

Agrivane knew those words. He'd heard those words. Felt those words.

Felt those words and **remembered.**

He'd crumbled under those words.

Enough.

He'd never been **enough**.

His first life, he was the second son, the one who wasn't as strong as Gawain, the one who didn't have enough potential when held up against his younger brothers. He'd bee the one who'd been singled out as the coward, the one without honor or other virtues the court so prized.

This life, he still wasn't enough. Not smart enough, not manly enough, not motivated enough. Always behind, always fading into the background, only useful to make others look better in their own failings.

The ace bandages he'd secured around his chest every morning for years suddenly felt too tight.

He couldn't even get enough air into his lungs.

He took a deep breath, forced himself past the pain and the panic and regret and sorrow.

He'd never again worry about being enough. Never worry about how he stood in other people's fields of measurement.

“I'm sure if he was the only student having trouble your reviews would be unaffected,” Agrivane challenged, “In fact, I'm willing to bet most of your students are doing poorly and you're just trying to bully them out of your class one by one.”

“Stop,” the professor snapped.

“Or what,” Agrivane's fists were clenched, “you'll explain to the department head you can't handle when someone points out you're a bully.”

The professor left, face red.

“Thank you,” the other student turned to Agrivane with tears in his eyes.

“Don't, uh,” Agrivane unclenched his fists and sat back down, “don't mention it.”


	19. Corner Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred learns.

“Mo, you're up,” his teammate clapped him on the shoulder.

Mordred was in the middle of a game of billiards, which was the most normal thing in his life.

“Nine ball, left corner pocket,” he indicated the pocket in question with his cue stick.

His team was winning by a wide margin, by some miracle, when his cue slipped.

The sound it made when it hit the table was nearly identical to the last sound he heard in his first life.

“Ah fuck,” he spat.

How the stick against the table made the same sound as Excalibur piercing armor was so far beyond him that he put it out of his mind.

He hoped things started to make more sense from then out.

–

He'd been on his own since he was fifteen, unable to face the horrors of home and unwilling to be put in the foster system.

They'd still won the game, but not be as wide of a margin.

He lit his cigarette, night air cool against his face.

“Hey man, you alright?” his teammate asked, “You just kind of...slipped there. Still won us the game, but yeah. You alright?”

Mordred didn't know.

Didn't know whose hands were on him.

Didn't know which life he'd been dragged down which hallway, kicking and screaming.

Didn't know which life he hated more.

“Yeah,” he finally said, “yeah, I'm alright.”

“If you're sure,” his teammate shrugged, “They want to start early tomorrow, think you can make it at five?”

Mordred shook his head. “Work.”

“You got, what, five jobs?”

“Three,” Mordred took another drag, trying to will the smoke to clear his mind, “but fuck does it feel like five sometimes.

“You kind of amaze me, dude,” his teammate shrugged, “I don't know how you just keep getting up and showing up.”

“You learn to survive,” Mordred said, and realized he'd never said anything with more truth behind it.

If nothing else, he had always, always learned to survive.

This life wasn't going to be any different.

Now, he just had more resources at his disposal, more memories to pull from, fewer things he'd have to learn all over again.

–

“Nine ball,” Mordred pointed with his cue stick, “left corner pocket.”

“Not this again,” someone whose voice he didn't recognize groaned.

Mordred rolled his eyes before he lined up his shot.

Took a deep breath.

Aimed.

Didn't really notice how quiet things got, how the dust froze in the air.

He blamed it on concentration.

Focused.

Took his shot.

Everything clamored at once, again, balls against table, against wood, glasses against bars, people and fabric against each other.

The nine ball went in the exact right pocket.

Mordred rose both arms in the air, triumphant, cue stick parallel with his body but still gripped in his left hand.

Oh yes. He would learn to survive.


	20. Finding Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She just wants to charge her laptop.

Isolde was alone at a Berlin airport, the people passing by hardly counting as company.

She was stuck, one plane grounded for work and the other not yet secured.

Her apartment wouldn't be much to return to, and she knew she'd only be there for a few weeks at most before her work sent her elsewhere, but it was still hers. 

Familiar.

A home, almost.

Her laptop battery died in the middle of trying to save her trip write-up.

She let out a muted scream of frustration before making sure she had all of her personal affects and getting up to try to find an unused outlet.

She finally found on, not close enough to any of the boards that she could keep an eye on her flight but close enough to a speaker she couldn't miss an announcement.

She'd barely gotten it charged enough before a stranger came and kicked her shoes.

“I need to charge my laptop,” he told her.

She was so shocked she didn't respond at first.

“You deaf or something?” the man snapped, “I said I need to charge my fucking laptop.”

She'd never been treated like this before.

Except.

Except she had.

She felt helpless, ashamed, used.

She had been a pawn in Marc's politicking and had no way to fight against that.

She'd taken solace where she could, hidden her shame, swallowed her fear, but was still, at the end of everything so powerless.

“I said,” the man kicked her again, harder this time.

She rose to her feet, laptop crashing to the ground.

“I heard you,” she yelled, “And even if I hadn't what, you'd kick a deaf person because you're too fucking lazy to go find another outlet?”

A crowd started to gather.

“Move,” she hissed, “and never, never treat someone like this again because the next person won't be so kind about it.

He left.

“Holy shit,” she heard another woman's voice from the crowd, “that was amazing.”

She promised herself she would never find herself in a situation where she was only worth what a man wanted from her again.


	21. Simple Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinadan never quite learned patience. Palamedes was more than willing to teach him.
> 
> CW: gun violence

It had been so natural, after the first night, having Palamedes move in with him.

There was a kinship there, a bond defying the laws of time, space, and nature themselves they both dove into without hesitation.

It had been barely five months since the party, but it felt like Dinadan had been here his entire life.

They shared stories they would not have dared told their first life for fear of being accused of treason, but were just as hilarious the second life.

“I still can't believe Arthur had never fired a bow before,” Palamedes was laughing so hard he was crying.

“And he just,” Dinadan wiped a tear from his eye before he mimicked how poorly the King's shot had gone.”

“I thought he was going to shoot himself in the foot,” Palamedes admitted.

“I thought the squire in charge of maintaining the practice area was going to shit himself,” Dinadan wheezed, “Fuck. Can you imagine how poorly everything could have gone.”

“Fortune smiled on the King, until the end,” Palamedes' face fell a little.

“Sometimes I wish I _had_ seen the end,” Dinadan said it like a confession.

“I wish I had better stories of later,” Palamedes, too, said it like a confession.

A few beats of silence.

“It's amazing how fast the mood crashed sometimes,” Dinadan said.

“Tides rise and fall,” Palamedes' reply was instant and effortless.

Dinadan huffed out a sigh.

“Dinadan?” Palamedes' single word held countless questions.

“Thanks for being so patient with me,” Dinadan assumed that was an answer to one of the questions.

“Of course,” Palamedes' unwavering graceful manner of speaking wove its way into everything he said, and Dinadan knew he would never grow tired of that, “and besides, you are quickly becoming an excellent cook.”

“Thank you,” Dinadan felt his face flush at the praise, “but that's not what I was referring to.”

“I know,” Palamedes told him, “you always rush yourself.”

Dinadan offered a small, careful smile.

–

“Are you sure you want to go out this late?” Dinadan yawned.

“It's just to the store across the street,” Palamedes assured him, "just a simple favor."

“Only if you're sure,” Dinadan finished yawning, “my morning coffee isn't that important.”

Palamedes laughed. “Please, I know how you handle mornings without it.”

“Can't really argue there,” Dinadan felt ready to fall asleep on his feet.

“I'll be back in ten minutes at most,” Palamedes assured him, “Did you need anything else?”

Dinadan shook his head.

“Be well,” Palamedes told him.

“See you in a bit,” Dinadan's smile was less careful this time.

–

Palamedes was at the checkout, fishing his wallet from his back pocket, when he saw the telltale flash that things were about to go sideways.

He didn't even think before he jumped over the counter and knocked the checkout boy to the floor.

He was back on his feet, hands over the gun, trying to wrestle it away before his brain caught up with what he was doing.

There was screaming, more than there perhaps should have been for the nearly empty store, but it sounded so far away as Palamedes focused on the struggle that was, quite literally, in his hands.

–

The bullet had hit him just above his right eye, Dinadan was told, did he have any family that needed to be contacted?

–

The funeral felt like nothing, despite the news crews waiting outside. Dinadan wasn't sure he registered a word of it.

“Hey,” the last time he'd seen her was her birthday party, and here she was, standing next to him, holding onto his upper arm, “come on.”

He followed her to the burial, numb, everything – sight, sound, smell, taste, touch – more static than real.

–

“You need to eat.”

Dinadan had no idea where she'd gotten the keys to his apartment.

“When was the last time you went to the store?” she said as she opened the fridge.

“When,” Dinadan tried to tell her, tell her it had been Palamedes who'd last been to the store, and it was just to get something for him, that maybe if he didn't need or want things or if he could find it in him to carry himself on his willpower alone instead of a fucking cup of coffee yeah, sure, he might be cranky, but Palamedes would still _be here._

All that came out was a sob.

“Oh,” her voice was so kind, so understanding, “oh, honey, here.”

She sat on the couch next to him, held him as he cried, held his hair back as he threw up from the force of everything become so irreversibly real, cleaned up so he could just keep crying and crying.

–

He must have passed out eventually, because he awoke on a couch that no longer smelled like Palamedes, the taste of stale vomit coating his mouth.

He forced himself upright, exhausted, feeling weaker than he ever had before.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Dinadan managed.

“I ordered pizza,” she told him.

Dinadan had so many questions – why was she here, who let her in, why did she care so much when he'd been such an absent friend? - but all that came out was, “Thanks.”

–

He learned to feel like a person again, a little bit at a time.

He relearned to smile. To laugh. To hold a conversation without spacing out in the middle of it and needing to pick between being excluded and needing to stop everything so he could be caught up.

He adapted, too, back into the role of entertainer, the bard wearing a warrior's armor.

He let his friends coax him into going out more.

Which was how he was back at the same karaoke bar where this had all started for his friend's going-away party.

“Are you sure you'll be alright?” she asked him, excited to have been accepted into medical school but scared to leave Dinadan alone.

“Positive,” she assured her, “besides, I've got your number.”

That seemed to put her at ease.

“Good,” she relaxed back into her seat.

Dinadan had made plans to move, too, though he wasn't sure where to yet.

What he did know, however, was if there were any of the others out there, he was never letting them out of his sight again.

“Oh!” his friend snapped him from his own thoughts, “You're up next!”

Of course she'd signed him up for a song.

He felt his knees try to give as he stood up, ignored the tremor in his hands as he picked up the microphone.

He took a deep breath.

And sang for the first time since before the funeral.


	22. A toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan never chased more than he already had.
> 
> Until things shifted.

Tristan was working overtime at a one-off airport cafe, horribly underpaid for the abuse he put up with and exhausted all the time.

He kept telling himself it was just for the semester, but he'd been there for near two years.

He'd been yelled at three times today, and only two were by customers.

His life had become routine, and while there was a certain safety to it, he sometimes wondered what else might be out there, outside his comfort zone.

–

Isolde came through on her way from gate to baggage claim, hungry, eager to get home, and generally focused on anything but the world in front of her.

Tristan saw her the moment she walked in. He couldn't stop staring at her to the point he was worried she was going to call security.

“Do you remember?” she finally asked him.

“Excuse me?” Tristan drew back, confused, both by the question and the fact she acknowledged him.

“Fuck, ignore that,” she looked sad before she looked away, “Anyways, I'll take these.” She put a bottle of coke and a pack of beef jerky on the counter.

Tristan rang her up, the silence awkward.

“You alright?” his managed asked after she left.

“Uh,” Tristan paused.

And then he realized.

He did remember.

He remembered everything, in such explicit detail that his reply seemed so _wrong_.

“Oi,” was the first thing Tristan heard when his senses started to come back into focus, “You alive in there.”

“Never more alive,” Tristan removed his name tag, “Also, I quit.”

“What, you can't just,” his managed sputtered.

Tristan was already running in the direction he'd seen Isolde leave.

–

“Isolde!” he caught up to her as she had just finished pulling her bag off the conveyor belt.

He was panting, pretty sure he hadn't ran that far or that fast since high school.

“Isolde,” he nearly ran into her, literally, “Isolde I remember.”

“Tristan,” she hugged him so fiercely he thought he'd cracked a rib.

–

Giving up his life to become a part of hers was the easiest thing he'd ever done.

He found he didn't miss what he had left behind, didn't mind the sense of starting from scratch that came with transferring colleges, moving halfway across the country, and having to work odd jobs to have any income.

Isolde, for her part, never treated him like a burden, never complained when he was short on hours or had to drop shifts for an exam.

“I'm the oldest person in my class,” he complained one night.

“But you're still going,” she kissed him on the top of his head as he slumped over his laptop screen.

He made a small noise that shifted from frustrated to contented halfway through.

“And you're sure I'm not,” he nearly choked on the words, “you're sure I'm not a burden?”

“Never,” she promised him, “never, never a burden, my love.”

–

Tristan skipped his graduation ceremony for a job interview.

“Isolde!” he called her almost immediately, “Isolde, they hired me on the spot!”

Isolde let out a cheer and promised him she's be home in a few days to celebrate.

–

Isolde came home with the same brand of champagne Tristan already had in the fridge.


	23. Location, Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan's work transfers him.

Tristan had finished taping the last of their boxes when he asked, not for the first time, “And you're sure you're good with moving to San Francisco?”

“Tristan, honey,” she was in the middle of stacking some of the already packed boxes to they had a pathway through the apartment until the movers came, “it's where you're being transferred to. My home is with you.”

He made a noise caught between anxious and content. She giggled, put down the box she was carrying, and walked over to Tristan, “I love you,” she told him as she wrapped her arms around him, “Really, really, love you.”

“And I am thankful for your love,” he covered her arms with his, “and return it, every ounce.”

“Have you picked a hotel yet?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head, “I haven't had time to look honestly. And yes, yes, we leave tomorrow, I know.”

“It's okay, we leave tomorrow,” she'd had work book accommodations with only an hour's leeway.

“Thanks,” he muttered, “Do you know where our suitcases are?”

Isolde looked around.

“Crap,” she realized she did not.

–

“Isolde!” Tristan called her over to the pile of boxes serving as a table, “Isolde, how do you feel about staying at a hotel called Joyous Garde?”

He could hear her laughter across the apartment. 

–

“Huh,” it was more of an involuntary noise that escaped Tristan than one of observation, “so this is the twenty-first century Joyous Garde.”

“We're here for two weeks,” Iseult reminded him.

“It's not a bad hotel,” he backtracked, “Just. For a hotel named after Lancelot's castle I expected more marble I guess.”

“Oh please,” Iseult's laughter was a light, happy sound, “like Lancelot would have gotten marble anything.”

“He would be more a granite man,” Tristan snorted.

–

Lancelot was made aware of Tristan's presence a few seconds after he found the entire body of a stranger wrapped around his torso.

Legs were around his waist. Arms were around his shoulders.

“Told you Lancelot wouldn't be a granite man,” Iseult's voice spared any violence.

Iseult helped Lancelot peel Tristan off.

“Holy shit,” Lancelot wasn't sure if he was talking about seeing the two of them there or how quickly and effectively Tristan had affixed himself to him.

“Lancelot,” Iseult smiled once she had an arm securely around Tristan's waist to give Lancelot some recovery room, “how are you.”

“You two should come by for dinner with me and Galehaut,” Lancelot forgot to answer the question.

–

They caught up before dinner was delivered, all their stories being delivered with as few details as possible.

“It's so weird -” Galehaut was cut off by the doorbell ringing.

“I got it,” Lancelot put his hand over Galehuat's as Galehaut started to stand.

Lancelot returned with two bags of Chinese food.

“It's so weird,” Galehaut tried again, “how deeply personal the details of the remembering process seem.”

“It was like being at my absolute weakest,” Lancelot said by way of agreement, “like who I was before and who I am now hinge on that process, but it's easier to just...”

“...let it blend into the background,” Iseult finished for him. Lancelot nodded.

“How long are you two in San Francisco?” Lancelot asked.

“As long as my company will have me,” Tristan said with a shrug.

Lancelot smiled, the felling that the new Joyous Garde was doing its job seeping into his veins.


	24. Open seas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred just wants a vacation.

Mordred hadn't taken a vacation in.

Well.

He supposed he'd never taken a vacation.

A seven day cruise to seemed like an excellent place to start.

He should have known nothing in his life went as hoped.

For example, he had hoped for a quiet week to himself, just his backpack full of books and the sun on the deck.

What he got, somewhere towards the end of the third day, was into a screaming match.

“And you,” Mordred's voice was more of a roar than a yell, “you thought you were just so much fucking better than the rest of us! Off on every goddamned adventure you could get your hands on, stick your name to, while you left the rest of us behind!”

“Oh, so this is about you and what they did to you, is it?” Gawain's voice was much more of a frantic scream, “Never about why I left, why I spent my entire goddamned life aw far away as possible!”

“Because you never **tried** ,” Mordred spat, “We weren't your family, we were an afterthought. Mommy and daddy were too fucking awful to you so you gave up on us, too, well guess what? We survived without you and we'll do it again. We never needed you in the first place.”

Gawain recoiled.

Mordred had never seen Gawain recoil, not even from a physical blow.

“You think I didn't know that?” Gawain could barely get his voice above a whisper.

“Fuck,” Mordred realized his mistake too late.

–

“And the worst thing,” Gawain was deeper in the mixed drinks that came with the cost of the ticket than he'd planned on getting, Mordred equally as gone, “the worst thing was no matter what I did, no matter how much I accomplished, I was never more than their pawn. Leverage, at best, something to control rather than someone to put a little fucking faith in.”

“God they really didn't change,” Mordred sniffed, “Mom always looked at like she expected me to break if I hit my knee on a door too hard, but your da made it clear I was a bastard, no son of his, unworthy of the space I took up, all that jazz. And the think is, I believed him. Still do, sometimes.”

“How do the dead have so much power over us?” Gawain asked as he tried to flag down the bartender.

“You two need to have a glass of water,” the bartender told him, “Maybe two. Maybe five.”

Mordred flipped him off, but took two glasses of water and started staggering back to his room.

–

“I feel like shit,” Gawain informed Mordred while they were in line for breakfast, “in every possible direction.”

“Same,” Mordred muttered, “gods, this is unreal.”

“Uh-huh,” Gawain agreed.

–

When they disembarked, they'd come to an uneasy truce, both swearing on their own blood they would never repeat a word of what they'd told each other.

“This was the most stressful vacation I have ever been on,” Gawain said as he realized they were about to part ways.

“It's the only vacation I've ever been on,” Mordred shrugged, “Phone number?”

“Oh thank fuck I was so worried you were going to abandon me like I'd abandoned you,” Gawain said as if it was one word.

–

And if they wound up back at Mordred's apartment, crying more, apologizing, trying to figure out what it meant to be a family.

Well.

Mordred seemed in for a lot of wading into uncharted territory.


	25. Moving On, in a Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seals, houseboats, and one very good friend.

“A boat?” she asked.

“Why not a boat?” Dinadan had her on video call, “Have you gotten your match yet??”

“Match day isn't for another week,” she wined, “But, seriously, a boat?”

“It seems novel,” Dinadan shrugged, “and also is much, much cheaper than rent in San Francisco.”

“Only you'd move to a city because it's close to a seal hospital,” she laughed, “God, I can't believe you're there full-time now.”

“Well, I'm currently living in the back of a van,” Dinadan reminded her, “but the boat's almost done the...paperwork process.”

“I'm so glad you're giving me a tour before you finalize,” she told him.

“You have some of the best taste I know,” Dinadan informed her.

She laughed and told him to get on with it.

–

“So, that's the boat,” Dinadan held his phone as far away from him as he could, “small, but cozy.”

“Needs some cosmetic touch-ups,” she noted, “but it's kind of cute. Smaller than your old apartment, somehow.”

“It was too big,” Dinadan said before he could stop himself.

“And if you decide to, like, get one of those water dogs, you can always knock out the wall between the living room and the kitchenette,” she distracted him, “looks like the wall's just cosmetic.”

“God, can you imagine stopping a water dog from jumping into the bay,” Dinadan laughed, thankful for the redirection.

–

“I need to go start dinner,” she told him.

“Christ, the time differences are going to take some getting used to,” Dinadan frowned, “It's barely past two here.”

“Three hours ahead, here,” she nodded, “take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” Dinadan said, even though he knew what she meant was, _Don't spend too much time alone._

–

She, 12:36PM: How's SF???  
He, 12:44PM: Not as warm as I expected.  
She, 12:48PM: Go buy a bunch of sweaters or something.  
He, 12:53PM: But I just bought a boat.

His phone rang almost immediately.

“Were you going to tell me or were you waiting for an opening like that???” she fussed, “But congrats! Do you move in right away, or what?”

“It needs a final inspection, but I'll move in over the weekend,” Dinadan's laugh was one of relief.

–

Today marked seven years since Lancelot had found Galehaut on the pier.

He knew Galehaut was in the middle of a project, so he took a walk alone, impatient.

–

Lancelot would know that shock of fire red, barely tamed hair anywhere.

He blinked a few times.

_Not everyone is another member of the court come home,_ he chided himself.

Except.

Except his eyes looked a bright _gold_ from a distance and his posture and movement were so fluid that Lancelot couldn't not go closer to check.

“Dinadan?” Lancelot took a crap shot when he got close enough to be heard.

Dinadan turned on his heels.

“Well fuck me,” his jaw dropped, “No, don't, but you know what I mean.”

“Gods, you haven't changed a bit,” Lancelot laughed.

Dinadan was proud of his performance.

–

Lancelot called Tristan, who called Iseult, who called Galehaut, who was sitting in his office with Dinadan – who was fidgeting – while Lancelot took care of some paperwork.

“So are you two coming for dinner tonight?” Galehaut asked.

“On your anniversary?” Iseult asked.

“Yes,” Galehaut confirmed.

Dinadan coming to court, he figured, meant the anniversary dinner could wait another night.

–

“A seal hospital brought you to the area?” Isolde asked, eyes bright and face excited.

“Yeah,” Dinadan said around a bite of pasta, “it's across the bridge a bit, but yeah.”

He's elected not to tell them about Palamedes.

He couldn't keep up the role he'd always filled if he told them about Palamedes.

“God,” Galehaut laughed, “I can't believe there's five of us. Five!”

“Yeah,” Dinadan felt his smile falter for a moment, “neither can I.”

He was never letting them out of his sight if he didn't have to. He'd figure out what to do with the house boat later.


	26. Istanbul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred needs to stop making plans.

It was supposed to be a quick layover, but once he'd gotten there, he moved his flight back by several days.

He missed a lot of history, but from what he was able to gather the British had conquered most of the world for spices and only used pepper in most of their dishes.

Istanbul, the ads said, would have – among other things – spices. More spices than he'd ever be able to name, ever be able to memorize the flavor profile of.

And so, Mordred in Istanbul, looking for flavor.

But nothing ever went as planned.

–

Agrivane was in Istanbul on business.

He was terrified.

Leaving home was never his favorite thing – he stood out; he attracted whispers and stares and the occasional snide comment. On a few memorable occasions, a threat.

It was bad enough at home that he didn't keep up with how safe other countries were for people like him.

Still, the smell of the markets lured him out of his hotel room.

–

Mordred recognized him on sight.

The market was busy.

Mordred made his way through the crowds, not afraid to elbow people out of the way if he needed to.

He nearly lost sight of him at an intersection.

And then, finally.

Finally he was able to grab Agrivane's hand.

Agrivane reacted like Mordred had expected – tense body, then completely relaxed, then he swung around on the balls of his feet.

“Brother,” Mordred whispered.

Agrivane froze.

Registered.

Dragged Mordred back to his hotel room without another word.

–

“What are you doing here?” Mordred asked.

“Business,” Agrivane was already making them tea, “You?”

“Impulse,” Mordred shrugged, “Gawain's here, too.”

“Of course he is,” Agrivane wasn't surprised, “You're the first I've seen.”

“You're the second, for me,” Mordred told him, “How have you been?”

“Eh,” Agrivane made a gesture for _so-so/_ , “Better in most ways, worse in others.”

“You've gotten faster,” Mordred meant it as a compliment.

“I had to,” Agrivane said through gritted teeth, “this world isn't safe.”

“The world was never safe,” Mordred pointed out.

Agrivane raised an eyebrow.

The tea kettle began to whistle.

–

It was a peaceful reunion, Mordred realized as he was waiting for his plane.

A different hell his brother was running from than Gawain, or even him, very different, but Agrivane was almost.

Collected.

As if he'd remembered a long time ago and had done a lot of atonement.

This wasn't the Agrivane who'd killed a fellow Knight for insulting his honor, or the Agrivane who skipped more practices than he attended.

This Agrivane would have been at the front lines.

Mordred wondered for the first time if there was more to this life – this second chance – than just surviving.

He wanted to know, and he had his brother to thank.


	27. I Dreamed a Dream of Days Gone By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad chases better things.

He hadn't even gotten in the door after getting home from school when the screaming started.

“You're the most useless son any woman has ever had the misfortune of pushing out her vagina,” the woman in the doorway snarled, “To think I hoped you'd be useful at keeping your good-for-nothing father around!.” She shut the door in Galahad's face.

“Huh,” Galahad wasn't sure what he felt, if he felt as all, “well alright then.”

He had kept all of the things he didn't want to lose. He had, he realized with sudden clarity, expected this day to come sooner rather than later.

She's enver wanted to be a mother, never wanted Galahad around the house. He was a burden, a pest, an unwanted mouth to feed.

Galahad pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket and made a phone call.

“Hey,” Galahad said into the phone, “Can you come pick me up? Yeah. Yeah. I'll be at the gas station a few block down the road. No, the one closer to the mall. Is that alright? Yeah. Yeah. Thanks.”

Galahad hung up and started walking.

He was hungry, but that was nothing new. He couldn't remember a time he hadn't been hungry.

He ignored the stomach pains and kept walking.

Finally, the gas station was in sight.

He sat on the curb outside the gas station's pay area and waited for his uncle.

The ancient truck could be heard before he saw it.

Never before had he been so relieved to hear the offense to the eardrums.

He climbed in through the long-gone passenger window, a lifetime of practice making it an effortless thing.

“I'm going to have to tape it back up when we get to the house,” his uncle told him.

“I figured,” Galahad's voice was weak.

“How you holding up?” his uncle asked.

“I don't know,” Galahad answered honestly.

They rode in silence for a while. Eventually, Galahad let himself cry. His uncle offered a comforting hand on his back. Galahad's too-thin shoulders shook violently with each sob.

“Think it's for good this time?” his uncle asked as he turned into his driveway.

“I'm not going back this time,” the firmness of Galahad's voice was so out of sync with the rest of him, “I can't keep doing this.”

He wanted to be worth more than the _less than nothing_ his mother had made him believe he was for so long.

“I can't offer you much,” his uncle said, “but what's mine is yours, and I can take you to school every morning and pick you up when I get off work if you haven't found you way back.”

His uncle had only come into his life a little shy of a year ago. Galahad had always been told he had no family, had no one who'd want to take him in.

“Thanks,” Galahad's voice was weak again, “It's more than mom gave me. More than Clarissa gave me.”

His uncle frowned. “I grew up with her. I know how she gets. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Galahad sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, “Is it alright if I just go to sleep?”

–

He'd discovered a photograph of his mother as a child with a boy who looked maybe a year or three younger, two names and a single date scratched on the back in pen.

He memorized the name and looked it up at school the next day. It was more than luck, he believed, that the name had a phone number that wasn't hidden behind a paywall.

–

“All I've got is the couch,” his uncle told him, “the spare room's a mess and I won't be able to get a bed for a couple of months.”

“It's fine,” Galahad tried to sound reassuring.

His uncle unlocked the door and Galahad followed him in. True to his word, Galahad went directly to the couch and flopped face down. A minute later, his uncle covered him with a blanket.

He fell asleep almost instantly. His body had long learned to yield to exhaustion before hunger.

–

The first phone call, Galahad was so anxious he thought he was going to vomit. Or maybe wet himself. He wasn't sure.

He asked first if he had the right person, then asked if he had a sister who shared a name with his mother.

The voice on the other line had gotten very, very quiet before asking if something had happened.

“I'm your nephew,” Galahad managed to say before he started crying.

–

He dreamed.

He dreamed of a cup – a Grail – always just out of reach, always managing to slip through his fingers, through his hand, through his entire body if he tried to hold it.

He dreamed of two companions, bold, brave, unwilling to falter in step and faith alike.

He dreamed of fire, of battle.

He dreamed of Camelot.

–

Galahad awoke screaming. His uncle came running.

“What happened?” his uncle's voice was thick with sleep.

“Dream,” Galahad managed.

“You okay?” his uncle turned on the hall light.

“I think so,” Galahad pulled the blanket around him.

“Ice cream?” his uncle offered. Galahad nodded.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had ice cream.

**To think,** Galahad thought to himself, knowing full well it wasn't a dream at all, that it had never been a dream the first three dozen or so times he'd had it, **the fucking Grail knight needs ice cream to calm him down.**


	28. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaheris is failing a class. Gareth is helpful.

Gaheris had had the school's pilot after-hours tutoring program mandated a week before his exams.

It was his first year of secondary school and he was already failing.

He'd be tutored by a student, an older student, who'd received solid marks.

It was, as far as Gaheris was concerned, a nice way of saying _we don't know how to help you._

He was used to doing things on his own.

He hated this already.

–

Gareth sat down across from his new tutoring client, who was early, but he was sitting almost sideways, one leg crossed over the other, arms crossed over his chest.

“So uh,” Gaheris' voice was so young to Gareth's ears, “are you tutoring for volunteer hours or as an alternative to detention?”

“Neither,” Gareth shrugged, “It keeps me away from home. What subject you here for?”

Home wasn't bad, not exactly, but his mom preferred her new husband and his much younger, much more impressionable children.

And he? Well, he wanted to feel useful. To be helpful.

“Math,” Gaheris said, “Seems I'm just not good at it.”

“You've probably not been taught in a way that actually means anything to you,” Gareth pulled a pack of gum out of his backpack, took a piece, and then held it out to his new tutoring client, “Gum?”

“Uh, sure,” Gaheris hesitated for a moment before finally reaching out.

“Hey,” Gareth's single word was strangled. Gaheris looked up.

They didn't know how long they stared at each other, fifteen centuries building a bridge between each other, two brothers reunited at long last.

“Hey,” Gaheris' echoed reply was equally strangled.

–

Tutoring sessions became meeting on weekends became the two of them being practically inseparable.

“It's so weird,” Gaheris told Gareth one Saturday afternoon as they exited an ice cream shop, “how quickly everything came together. The memories, I mean.”

Everything meant everything, down to their play fights that bordered on violent. Gaheris had broken three fingers in three different incidents, and Gareth had a black eye at one point, before Gaheris realized how strong he was and started pulling his punches.

“Yeah,” Gareth agreed, “I wonder if there's any more of us.”

“There has to be,” Gaheris figured, “I mean, why stop at two?”

Gareth couldn't argue.

–

“Gaheris,” Gareth caught him outside the school, “Gaheris, we're not the only ones.”

“Who?” Gaheris didn't need to ask what he was talking about.

Gareth wrote out the address for a tailor's shop and instructed him to go there after school.

–

Gawain's hands shook as he called Mordred.

“They're here,” Gawain skipped the hellos, “There's here, in my city.”

“We'll be there tonight,” Mordred said and hung up.

He knew he didn't need to ask Agrivane if he wanted to come along.

–

Gareth borrowed Gaheris under the guise of tutoring, again, despite the exams having just ended, and took him to the restaurant Gawain had said to meet them at.

He was shocked to see Mordred and Agrivane there, too.

–

Dinner was...civil, Gareth decided.

There was only a little shouting and they weren't asked to leave early, which was much, much better than he'd expected. 

There was a tension running between his three older brothers that he suspected made his and Gaheris' roughhousing look gentle.

They'd all exchanged phone numbers and started a group chat before they parted way.

He'd heard Mordred and Gawain yelling at each other before they got a block away.

He wondered what it would have been like to meet them when they were all older, or all younger. He wondered about their childhoods, if they had it better or worse than their first life.

His parents loved him dearly, but he could tell by how much Gawain resented them while still upholding the values of Arthur's Camelot that it hadn't gone that way for him.

Agrivane was different, but he tried not to put too much stock into it.

If there were five of them, there had to be many, many more.


	29. Come Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts, as so few things do, in a shower.

Normally, Percival would not mind the fact the shower was communal. It was, after all, a dorm, and he was lucky enough to get a single room. If having to compete for stalls with curtains that didn't always stay shut the way you'd hope, hey, at least everyone else on the floor had the same problem.

Normally, Percival wasn't contending with what felt like a horror show of a first life coming in flashes, trying to burn itself into his brain like a brand.

The loss, the pain, the quests that never quite succeeded, never quite came together in a way that allowed them to end.

The smell of blood and shit and fear on the battlefield.

The desire to wash it all off his skin, that life, this one, he couldn't tell.

He was sobbing before he could stop himself, breaking down into a shell of himself before he could turn off the water and wrap himself in a towel and run back to his dorm room where he could ride it out alone.

He had no idea who was around, if anyone had come in, if anyone could hear him, and that worried him less than he wanted it to.

He wanted so badly to have something else to panic over.

“Hey,” a voice he recognized from his statistics class said, “Hold up a second.”

The water was turned off and a towel was draped over Percival's back. Percival forced himself to his feet, wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Come on,” the familiar voice urged. Percival's vision was blurry but he could hear his things being gathered up, “my room's just across the hall and it's a single, yeah?”

Percival let himself be lead, finding he trusted the other student.

He was on the floor again almost immediately, legs and soul disappearing from under him.

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as if it would help anything. 

He had a dim awareness of a low, mourning sound escaping him.

“Here,” the voice was gentle.

Percival felt a soft, warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders, draped down his back.

“Here,” again, this time pulling the blanket forward so it functioned like a hug.

Percival gripped the edges of the blanket so tight his knuckles turned white.

–

He spent a long time wrapped in an unfamiliar but soft blanket with his head against the outside of someone thigh, sobbing and trying to get enough air into his lungs.

As he leveled out, the realization that he was in someone else's dorm, wearing only someone else's blanket and a still-damp towel filtered in from the far edges of his mind.

“Fuck,” Percival finally managed a word, “you must think I'm pathetic.”

“You're handling it a lot better than I did, Sir Percival,” still gentle.

It clicked.

“Galahad?” Percival sat up straight.

“Yes,” Galahad said as if it were a confession.


	30. Grail Fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three of them.

Percival had asked Galahad to join him in his first international tournament.

Galahad asked why he hadn't just told him he was coming along.

–

Bors' students were proud, but rightfully so. Three of them had earned a spot in the international tournament, and all three of them were more than ready to take each other on when – not if, they swore – it came to that.

–

“It seems like uni was a bit of a waste,” Percival told Galahad as they got settled in their hotel room, “The degree itself, I mean. Sorry.”

Galahad laughed, Percival's perceived social faux pas already forgiven. “Same, honestly. I don't see where else in our lives our paths would have crossed, but I don't think I'm going to use my degree. Ever.”

“Yeah,” Percival nodded, “though somehow I feel like your income stream is higher risk than mine.”

“Counting cards is only a problem if you're daft enough to get caught,” Galahad wasn't worried about his own safety.

Percival snorted a laugh and set about unpacking his suitcase.

–

Bors managed to loose his students in the pre-event vendor party before he snuck off to where the other coaches would be gathering.

“Did you hear about the guy who doesn't have a coach?” was the first question he heard being asked.

“Who hasn't?” a reply came, “Apparently he's a natural, but there's no way _someone_ didn't train him up.”

“He came here with another man,” a third voice said, “super wiry guy, looks like one hit would break him in half.”

“So not his coach,” the tone was mocking.

Bors' hope dared to flare for the first time in years. He'd heard those descriptors before.

“What's he go by, in the cage?” the first voice again.

Bors was running to find the man in question as soon as he heard someone else say, “Grail Fighter," like a beacon had been lit and he knew where to go.

–

It was Bors' turn to weep when he caught up with Galahad and Percival.

They were, again, so barely men they were difficult not to think of as children.

“You're safe,” was the first thing Bors said to them, “oh, my children, you are safe.”

–

Bors wondered, as he watched Percival take one of his students down in such little time he was embarrassed on his student's behalf, what his one son would be like, this life.

He wouldn't bring another child into this world, not with whatever he knew had to be headed his way, but he wouldn't mind seeing Elyan again, on a completely selfish level.

Still.

Percival and Galahad were his children now.

They'd made it this far on their own, he could tell by the hardened steel behind Galahad's icy blue eyes that it had been a process he'd been very, very alone for.

He wondered, as Percival caught his breath, fist raised in victory, how much further these children would go if he held the space for them.

He needed to find out.

He was going to find out.


	31. San Francisco isn't Saving Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe isn't laughing, but Agrivane wishes it was.

It was a joke, Agrivane managed to convince himself by the time his plane landed, that the hotel that had been booked for him was called _Joyous Garde._

The entire universe was laughing at him, subtle snickering seeping into every aspect of his life.

For the first time, he called a ride from his personal account. It wasn't cheap, but at the very least he wouldn't have to say the name of the hotel out loud when the taxi driver asked.

–

He had arrived half a day before the meeting he'd been flown halfway around the world for, but the jetlag had his head spinning.

Dinner time. Bed time. Time where his soul was still somewhere over the Atlantic, slowly being recalled after having failed to keep up with the plane.

Somewhere, his mind recalled Gawain had recently told him he was reading too much Gibson, and maybe, at this point, Gawain had a point.

He flipped through the laminated informational papers on the nightstand and learned the pool was open until ten at night with no lifeguard on duty, room service included delivery from nearby restaurants but nothing made in-house, and the hotel had been open for nine years.

Swimming late, when there would be no people around, was something that couldn't hurt.

He'd grab dinner somewhere within walking distance, figure out where to buy a pair of swim trunks, and go from there.

–

It was a few minutes after ten and Galehaut could see someone still swimming laps in the hotel pool.

He hated having to kick people out, but the last thing he wanted was someone _else_ seeing someone was swimming and decide to join them.

He wanted to go home.

–

“Oi,” Galehaut had had to yell to get the man's attention despite standing at the end of the swim lane.

Agrivane stopped, noticed shoes that were not pool shoes in any respect with legs attached at the edge of the pool, and lifted himself out of the pool, arms crossed over his chest.

“It's a bit after – holy fuck,” Galehaut got a good look at Agrivane and recognized him almost immediately.

“It's – oh,” Agrivane's jaw fell, “no way.”

Agrivane shivered and tightened his arms, suddenly wishing it was still a joke that the hotel was called Joyous Garde.

They stared at each other for a while.

–

“Gale, honey,” Lancelot had tried to find Galehaut in his tiny security office and, upon not succeeding, assumed a guest or few were being difficult about the pool having hours of operation, “everything alright?”

The sound – not just of Lancelot's voice, but a sound in general – snapped both Galehaut and Agrivane out of their shared disbelieving trance.

–

Agrivane was going to be killed, he was sure of it.

Why he showed up at Lancelot and Galehaut's house for dinner after work was beyond him, beyond all reasonable sense of self-preservation.

Somehow even more outside the realm of safe, sane things he could have done when Dinadan opened the door.

“Ah, good, you're here!” Dinadan's voice hadn't lost its unyielding cheerful, devil-may-care affect, “Come in, dinner's almost on the table.”

Agrivane had expected some anger, some rage, some death threats, _something_ from one of the men he'd killed.

Agrivane followed Dinadan past the foyer made up of a bathroom, closet door, and stairs that twisted as they lead up the a second floor, down a short hallway – pictures of Lancelot, Galehaut, and what he assumed had been some of their travels together – that dumped them out into an informal dining room. He looked to his right and saw a more-than-modest kitchen and a formal dining room. To his left, there was a living room set a few feet lower than the rest of the floor. An open door in the living room looked like it had more stairs, and a set of double sliding glass doors lead to a deck that had been painted red at one point and never re-painted.

“It smells delicious,” Agrivane couldn't tell what he was smelling.

“Thanks!” Isolde's voice came from the dining room, “Do you have any allergies? I don't know if Galehaut or Lancelot asked, sorry.”

It struck him how _nice_ everyone was being.

It made him panic.

“No,” he shook his head, “no allergies.”

“Oh good,” he could hear the relief in her voice.

“We're in the formal dining room,” Dinadan told him, “no one felt like moving chairs around.”

Agrivane nodded, pretending having enough chairs to have two tables was something he ever saw become a part of his life, and followed Dinadan into the dining room.

–

When Agrivane got back to the hotel room, he was exhausted, overwhelmed, and so, so confused.

Even with his brothers, there was a simmering violence always there, always waiting for an opening.

But those four – Lancelot, Galehaut, Isolde, Tristan – they _got along_. They'd given him a chance to show who he was this life instead of pasted his first life into place from the start.

He checked his phone and saw he had five missed calls and twelve missed texts, all from Mordred.

He knew it was nearing three in the morning for Mordred, but he called anyways.

“Oh thank fuck you're alive,” Mordred picked up on the first ring.

“What made you think I wouldn't be?” Agrivane asked.

“You said you'd let me know how the meeting went?” Mordred asked instead of said.

Agrivane had forgotten.

Agrivane wound up telling Mordred everything about the past twenty-four hours.

“And,” Agrivane finished up with something he hadn't said out loud yet, “they really liked what I had to offer. They've offered to transfer me to this office, permanently, to work on the project and then they'll figure out what to do with me from there.”

“Holy fuck Aggs,” Mordred sounded proud of him, “are you going to take it?”

“I,” he paused, “buy you guys...”

“I'll round them up,” Mordred said, “I'll drag them across the world if I have to.”

“It's so, so weird and so, so far outside everything that I can't even pretend like I understand why I _want_ to rally with them,” Agrivane confessed.

“You aren't alone in that,” Mordred assured him.

A pause.

“Yeah, get the others,” Agrivane told them, “I'll have an apartment secured almost as soon as I accept the transfer.”

“Want me to pack your stuff?” Mordred asked.

“Only you,” Agrivane said.

“Of course,” Mordred's voice was careful.

Why Mordred had respected his wishes not to tell the others was beyond him.

Why he didn't want to tell the others was also beyond him. It would have been nice, if nothing else, to have more help around the house after his top surgery.

At this point he feared it would just be awkward.

He tried to put that aside for now.

“Keep me updated?” he asked Mordred.

“Only if you don't scare the piss out of me again,” Mordred's voice had a frenzied touch to it.

–

Agrivane signed the transfer offer the next day, and the apartment lease three days after that.

**From:Mordred 14:52PM: Don't ask, but we'll be there in three days and our stuff will be there in two weeks.**

He chuckled and then realized how small the apartment was going to be.

He had three days to figure out how to bribe the neighbors into not calling the police to file a noise complaint multiple times a day.


	32. A Call Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving and...well, not shaking, that's for sure.

Gawain was indifferent until he was furious.

It took until he set foot into the apartment for the first time for the fury to set in.

He looked around, rooms bare, Agrivane's single suitcase the only sign Agrivane actually lived here.

He let his fury simmer as the four of them walked around the apartment, the smell of industrial cleaner that erased all traces of the previous tenant still clinging to the space.

He let it boil while the five of them ate dinner, seated in a sort-of circle on the floor of what would in all likelihood become the living room with two boxes of pizza serving as the focal point.

“Dibs on the master bedroom,” Gawain said, not realizing yet how furious he was with the whole situation.

“It's Agrivane's apartment,” Gareth said around a mouthful of pizza.

What Gawain heard was an echo of Mordred's _We survived without you and we'll do it again. We never needed you in the first place._

Gawain's blood started to boil.

Agrivane replied with a quick, “It's fine. Besides, we're going to have to share the rooms.”

“City's expensive,” Gaheris said, “I checked.”

“More than expensive,” Agrivane shook his head, “though that seems to be a more recent thing.”

“Why's Lancelot have to pick San Fran-fucking-cisco, anyways?” Gawain heard the snap in his voice, “Even if we're going to buy into the whole _Arthur returning when Britain needs him most_ bullshit, this isn't, well, it's nowhere near Camelot. Or London. Or any other city in the entire country we were literally just next to where the whole prophecy's set to unfold.”

Agrivane explained how, except for Gaelahut, the other four – five, if he included himself – wound up here completely by accident, as if being pulled by strings that could be neither seen or felt.

“Well I'm not going to be someone's fucking puppet,” Gawain shouted before rising to his feet and marching back to the master bedroom.

He slammed the door behind him.

–

Agrivane gave Gawain about forty-five minutes before he went to check on him.

“Fuck off,” Gawain tried to growl.

Agrivane could tell he'd been crying.

“There's still some pizza left,” Agrivane told him.

Gawain didn't reply.

Agrivane sighed, left.

Gaheris returned.

“I feel like we could fit three people in here,” Gaheris said as he laid down across from Gawain.

Gawain rolled over to turn away from Gaheris.

“Come on,” Gaheris tried to keep his voice light, “it's bigger than my room back ho – back in Kirkwall.”

“Back home,” Gawain spat, “We're never going home again, Gaheris.”

“Home's a choice,” Gaheris said as he rolled over to lie on top of Gawain.

Gawain threw Gaheris, a reflex, expecting the gesture to be an angry one rather than an attempt at comfort.

Gaheris landed with a thump that had Gareth and Mordred in the room in a matter of heartbeats.

“Oh fuck,” Agrivane muttered, giving up on the hope they were going to have anything resembling what he'd seen at dinner with the other four.

A screaming match with periodic sounds of a physical fight as the only interrupter.

Agrivane listened from the living room, frozen.

–

“Hello?” Lancelot picked up Galehaut's phone.

“Sorry it was the first number alphabetically and things are just _bad_ here and oh, god, you're not even Galehaut, are you?” Agrivane said as it it was one word.

“No,” Lancelot told him, “but what's going on?”

He sounded like he actually wanted to know.

So Agrivane told him.

Agrivane told him everything, sequestered on the apartment's tiny balcony that he didn't even think could fit a single folding chair, the fear and anxiety and violence that had erupted and he'd been powerless to stop it.

Lancelot listened without interrupting.

When Agrivane was finally done, Lancelot waited a few beats before telling him: “You aren't responsible for any one else's choices.”

“It still feels like my fault,” Agrivane mumbled.

“Is the fight still going on?” Lancelot realized Agrivane hadn't mentioned.

Agrivane managed a strained affirmative.

“I'll send Isolde,” Lancelot told him.

–

Isolde found the front door unlocked, so she marched herself back to the master bedroom where eighty percent of the Orkney brothers were still fighting.

She knocked on the door frame loud enough that they turned around, so clearly expecting Agrivane.

All four of them froze.

“Alright,” she told them, “all of you, in the car, now, more, I want to see you in a line. Car's in front of the building, Tristan's in the driver's seat, and I expect all four of you to find a way to fit yourselves in the back seat.”

Mordred, Gareth, and Gaheris couldn't move fast enough.

“You, too,” she told Gawain, “get moving.”

“Why are you here?” Gawain didn't budge.

“Becuase you're acting like a bunch of spoilt children who didn't get exactly what they wanted for Christmas so they set their room on fire,” she informed him, “Now move. If you lot can't remember how to act like Knights and what the upper limit of a fight is before it turns into hate and resentment, then you're going to be shown.”

Gawain still didn't budge.

Isolde sighed and grabbed him by the ear lobe.

Gawain tried to fight her, tried to pull away, but she was faster.

She brought the point of her elbow down on his collar bone and then brought the heel of her show into fast contact with his kneecap.

Gawain maid a sound more pain than surprise and found himself on the floor for a second time that night.

“Goddamn,” Agrivane had decided to see what had his other brothers running – literally running – out the door.

“Now,” Isolde acted like she hadn't brought Gawain down with two hits, “get in the car. No, Agrivane, honey, you can stay here, you're fine.”

“They're my brothers,” Agrivane said like it was obvious, “if they're going to be punished as a group, it's going to be all five of us.”

Gawain couldn't decide how he felt about things.


	33. Peace Bagels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things, for better and for worse, come to pass

Isolde had them running laps around the hotel's general area until Gaheris finally had to stop, his legs screaming.

As the other four came around, she piled them back in the car.

“Can we go home?” Gaheris asked.

“We can go back to someone's home,” was all Isolde said.

–

They found themselves at Galehaut and Lancelot's.

Dinadan was there, too.

“Ah crap,” Mordred said when he saw everyone.

–

Gaheris slept through catch-up hour.

“He's seventeen,” Gareth said, “and really not an athlete.”

“God it was like being a page again,” Agrivane was sprawled face-down on the floor, slowly flexing every muscle group he could think of so his body wouldn't hate him in the morning.

“I hate every choice I have ever made,” Gawain decided, “every last one, this life, the first life, any life I've had that I've forgotten or haven't remembered or however this disaster works.”

“I don't think it has to do with his age,” Isolde was looking at Gaheris, “His hip looks off. Did he hit it on anything?”

Mordred and Gareth stared at Gawain, who put his face in his hands.

–

When the general catch-up and review of grievances in a less violent manner was over, Gaheris felt fine. Sore, but fine.

“Youth,” Galehaut said loud enough that only Lancelot and Dinadan heard him.

“So,” Lancelot said to the nine people crammed in his living room, “what does everyone want for breakfast?”

No one said anything, all five brothers looking everywhere but at each other.

Galehaut gave Lancelot a look that said, _It's four in the fucking morning._

“Bagels it is,” Lancelot shrugged.

–

Bagels had, it felt, evened out what was left of anyone's temper.

Mordred had, over the course of the day, wound up with Agrivane's keys, so he lead everyone back in the apartment.

Agrivane flopped to the floor as soon as he got to the living room. The pizza boxes were still on the floor.

“Thank fuck it's Sunday,” Agrivane muttered, “Just let me sleep here. We'll worry about everything else later.”

“Do you have blankets?” Gareth asked.

“Hall closet, next to the bathroom,” Agrivane said.

“Do you use them?” Gareth asked a follow-up question.

“I sleep with the windows open and it's plenty warm,” Agrivane explained instead of just answering no, “sleep where ever you want.”

The other four looked at each other, worried.

Mordred, Gareth, and Gaheris eventually settled on looking at Gawain.

–

Gawain had meant to wind up in the smaller bedroom, he really had.

Mordred and Gareth were already asleep in the smaller bedroom, sprawled out at such weird angles that there wasn't room for another person.

Gaheris was sitting in the corner of the master bedroom as far away from the door as possible, using his phone to read.

“Do you need me to kill the light?” Gaheris didn't look up from his book.

“Nah,” Gawain laid down on the other side of the room, knowing full well sleep wasn't an option despite how exhausted he was.

Gaheris read for a while. Gawain listened to the pages turn every few minutes.

“We'll be alright, yeah?” Gaheris broke the silence.

Gawain sat up, then stood up, walked over to Gaheris and sat down next to him.

Gaheris flinched, an unconscious thing.

“I'm sorry,” Gawain apologized and meant it for the first time in his life.


	34. Just Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galahad take flight. He hates everything about it.

Amsterdam was beautiful.

Amsterdam was home.

Amsterdam was too fucking far away from the hospital where Galahad's uncle lay dying.

“We'll be there tomorrow,” Bors hugged Galahad before dropping him off at the airport, “We love you. Go. Don't waste time with us on the road.”

Galahad knew there hadn't been time to arrange tickets for all three of them, but still hated how alone he was.

–

“Hey,” Galahad's voice cracked as he entered his uncle's hospital room.

“Hey kiddo,” his uncle offered him as close to a smile as he could manage.

Galahad hesitated for a moment before crawling into the bed to snuggle against his uncle like he was a child again.

“How's Amsterdam?” his uncle asked.

“Beautiful,” Galahad sniffed, “far away. What happened?”

“Nothing good, kid,” his uncle told him honestly, “Caught it too late and it's spread too fast to do anything. They're telling me I have a few days, at best.”

“It's not fair,” Galahad knew nothing was fair, and pointing it out didn't make him feel any better.

“I'm just glad you made it,” his uncle told him.

“Me, too,” Galahad felt it was wrong to be the one who was crying.

He was going to live through this.

–

“I hope I did right by you,” his uncle told him the next day.

“More than,” were the only two words Galahad could say.

–

He died before Percival and Bors got the chance to meet him.

–

They both stayed with Galahad for the funeral.

–

Packing up the house was the worst part of it, for Galahad. There were so many things his uncle had kept for him, held onto that suddenly seemed so unimportant. They were _things_.

He wanted his uncle back.

–

Galahad cried for three days before he could be coaxed into Bors' car.


	35. Home at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd long outgrown the apartment, and finally acted on it.

Agrivane rented the townhome sight-unseen.

There just wasn't time enough to tour it.

“I could try,” Mordred offered.

“No,” Agrivane snapped his fingers and pointed at Mordred, not unlike he would scold a dog, “no fucking with the basis of time itself unless it's absolutely needed.”

Mordred grumbled but agreed.

–

Three bed with den, two bathroom, two floors, and utilities included. It was on the absolute upper end of Agrivane's budget, but not having to worry about the natural fluctuation of electric and water and gas put his mind at ease, just a bit.

All three bedrooms and both bathrooms were on the upper floor. The kitchen, den, living room, and weird room off the side of the front door that seemed more like an oversized storage closet than a room made up the first floor.

They'd decided to do away with most of the furniture from the apartment. It was newer, sure, but it had seen so many fights, tussles, and questionable-at-best decisions that no one was convinced it would _survive_ the move, even with professional movers.

And none of them were professional movers.

–

Agrivane decided the den was going to be his room. It was plenty bigger than the tent – a bed, small desk, and maybe even a set of shelves would fit nicely.

“Are you sure?” Mordred asked when Gawain looked panicked.

“Am I sure I don't want to have to drag my ass up the stairs at the end of every day?” Agrivane said with a laugh.

And that was that.

–

He'd decided drilling a curtain rod into place on the outside of the den was a safer option than hoping a tension rod would work well in a long-term situation.

“Do you just like being close to the television?” Gareth asked him one day.

He realized he had no idea the last time he'd watched anything on TV. Or a movie. Or played a video game.

–

“Okay, so,” Mordred came home a little later than expected one night, a large shopping bag and a smaller one looped over the arm that wasn't extracting his set of keys from the lock, “Agrivane, I know you said, like a week ago, you couldn't remember actually using the TV set, so tonight we're all going to learn to play Mario Cart.”

–

Mordred and Gareth both turned out to be firm believers that if they leaned their entire body with their controller, arms at weird angles and elbows ready to take someone out, they'd go faster and wind up off the track less.

Mordred was quickly banished to the floor while Gaheris dragged one of the kitchen chairs in to sit on.

Agrivane was so truly awful, but he didn't mind.

–

The bed frames arrived last, for some reason Agrivane hadn't entirely followed when the shipping company called.

Gareth had been the first to had the frame delivered, and everyone gathered in the doorway while it was assembled.

“I feel a little guilty,” Gareth admitted almost as soon as the delivery people left.

“I'm a little jealous,” Gawain admitted.

–

It wasn't until the first play fight that cracked one of the dining chairs ended in Gareth and Mordred laughing so hard they couldn't breathe that Agrivane started to feel like this might become their home at last.


	36. Questions from the Airwaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home and Lamorak never quite got on.

For the first time in his life, cities started blurring together.

He knew where he'd been because every time he got a new assignment, he got an email, and sometimes he'd read through the subject lines when he couldn't fall asleep.

He'd been away from San Francisco – a city he'd only ever spend seventy-six hours in – for just over a month when he received an email from his boss telling him his articles had been floundering.

_Are you sure your heart's still in this?”_

The last line of the email mocked him

He knew the answer was no.

He'd found what he'd always been looking for. He just.

He hadn't stuck around.

No.

He'd left what he'd spent so many years wanting. Missing. Hoping for. If he'd believed in prayer, he would have prayed for it, he thought idly.

He waited two days before responding to the email.

–

Lamorak picked up the phone on the first ring.

“One article,” his boss told him, “you have _one_ article to show me you can write about something besides tourism before I'll even consider it.”

–

**Questions from the Airwaves  
by L. Morris**

**How does one reconcile the fact their first instinct after their first hint of home was to stand up ready to fight, only to take a swing less at someone else than ten minutes later?**

**How does one go back?**

**How does one ask for forgiveness when forgiveness is the last thing they deserve?**

**And why does one use distancing language when he knows he's talking about himself?**

**There's an intangible beauty behind the human condition that can, on rare occasions, be seen, but only between people. It's the connection between people who know they're family, by blood or by choice. The undercurrent of a laugh so genuine it draws other people into its joy.**

**It's buried in hope, in defiance, in courage in the face of fear. It's the charge in the air while you watch someone take a stand when no one else will. The way the whole area comes to life when it turns out they'd started a charge despite how alone they'd expected to be.**

**It's between friends, between brothers-in-arms, between comrades. It's the pause between moments that you only notice later meant the end of one story and the beginning of another.**

**And so I ask you, readers, where do you find these things?**

**Where do you find home when it's everywhere around you, but not within you?**

**How does one go back to a place that doesn't have a physical bearing to align a compass with?**

–

Lamorak didn't received a call from his boss for another three days.

“I hated every goddamned word of it,” he was informed, “but your audience loved it, so maybe you're on to something. Go take care of whatever has you so off base.”

“Thank you,” Lamorak remembered to say before hanging up.

He booked the first available ticket to San Francisco he found.

Packed everything back into his suitcase.

Shoved the hope he'd poured into his one-chance article back into the box he'd let it out of.

Headed to the check-out desk.

Headed back to the new Camelot.

Realized he'd be traveling through Thanksgiving, and managed to find the irony in it.


	37. Knight of the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yvain and his Lion

Guinevere excused herself from the meeting with some of the major purchase execs at the shops they partnered with to take a call from Arthur.

“Art?” she was panicked. He hated phone calls in general, and never, never interrupted a meeting.

“Jenny there's a fucking lion outside!” he was yelling.

“There's a _lion_ outside??” Guinevere was also yelling.

“A fucking lion, Jenny, what do I do?” Arthur was pretty far beyond panicked.

“Well not call me!” she was still yelling, “Call animal control! Or the Knight who had a fucking Lion!”

Arthur hung up. Guinevere hoped it was to call Yvain.

–

Yvain hadn't stopped laughing at Arthur by the time Guinevere got home. Arthur was still standing on the kitchen counter like it would help him.

“What's going on?” she was cautious, worried.

Curious.

“Oh holy fuck that is a lion,” Guinevere backed out of the kitchen on instinct.

“It's,” Yvain was wheezing, tears rolling down his face, “it's a Tibetan Mastiff with a bad hair cut.”

“A dog?” Guinevere didn't quite believe him.

The lion barked.

“Okay, a dog,” her heart rate hadn't gone down despite the assurance.

“Yep, nope, still up here for a bit,” Arthur sounded only slightly less terrified than he had over the phone.

Yvain excused himself, realizing his laughter wasn't helping.

The dog followed.

–

Yvain had been in possession of the dog – who he was calling Lion – for two days and the beast was glued to him indoors.

Outside, though, he liked to run. Yvain could hardly blame him. Arthur and Guinevere had a lot of land and, well, most dogs ran when they could. Lion always came back to him, though.

–

Lion brought two friends home on the morning of the fifth day. His friends, quite blessedly, were slightly smaller and not missing two-thirds of their coats.

He took a picture of the three of them sitting together on the back porch and sent it to Arthur and Guinevere.

**From:Guinevere 7:34AM  
At least it's not a fucking lion.**

Yvain took that to mean he could keep them.

–

The first vet visit, Yvain dragged Guinevere with him because it was Arthur's turn to go to meetings.

She liked the dogs, but Lion still made her nervous, the initial panic not having unwired itself from the more primal part of her brain.

None of the dogs had microchips, and none of them matched the description of missing animals.

The vet offered to put Yvain in contact with local rescues if he didn't want to take them to the county shelter.

Yvain looked at Guinevere, knowing full well he had no source of income.

Guinevere sighed.

“No, thank you,” she told the vet.

Yvain's face lit up. Relieved tears danced in the inner corners of his eyes.

–

Yvain took the dogs out for a jog in the woods almost as soon as they got back to the house.

Arthur was in the kitchen, face to the cool counter, still in his meeting clothes when Guinevere told him everything that happened at the vet's office.

“It was like I went from Queen to Mom for a minute there,” she laughed.

“Don't say that Jen,” Arthur was grinning, “we're old enough to be his parents.”

Jenny's laughter redoubled.

“When did we get old?” she asked him.

“It's kind of nice,” Arthur said as he sat up.

It was nice, in its own way, to see what getting old with each other was like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely had [this dog](https://www.hindustantimes.com/it-s-viral/bushy-dog-mistaken-for-a-lion-in-spain-this-is-how-twitter-reacted/story-cdD3WmNCHTZiCGDSRlXsZI.html) in mind while writing this chapter.


	38. Bleach and Peroxide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After every battle is the clean-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: description of a dead body, no reverence for the dead
> 
> Nothing TOO detailed, but it's there.

Arthur and Guinevere slipped out early the morning after the battle to start the clean-up process.

“Portal to places no one's going to mind a dead body and some debris?” Guinevere asked as she unlocked the door.

“Absolutely,” Arthur was glad she offered so he didn't have to ask.

–

They got rid of the debris first, broom and general kicking things towards the portal Arthur's preferred methodology while Guinevere held the portal open.

Then the Merlin's body was the only thing left to send through the portal.

“He just looks so frail,” Arthur looked over the body, Excalibur still lodged in it, skin so discolored it was barely recognizable as skin.

“Hard to imagine this is the magician who decided Camelot's fate,” Guinevere tried to imagine it, now, looking at what was left of him.

“I don't think I'm going to give him that power,” Arthur said with a grunt as he freed Excalibur.

The blood was black and mostly dried on the blade; the smell it released made Arthur retch.

“The missing eye,” Guinevere couldn't stop staring, “it looks even more horrific now.”

“Can't say the eye was the horror that held my attention,” Arthur squatted down to get a better look despite how his stomach and nose protested, “but yeah, man, that's. Ugh.

Arthur covered his mouth with his free hand as he stood, genuinely worried he'd vomit.

“So uh,” Guinevere needed to release the portal soon, for her own sake, “how do you. Uh. Did you want to...life him? Sweep him?”

“Oh fuck no,” Arthur aligned himself with the portal, the Merlin's body between him and it, “I'm going to kick him in.”

–

They got back to their house later than expected, Arthur splattered with old blood.

“What the hell?” Kay nearly dropped the pan he was holding.

“Turns out when you kick an already well-disturbed corpse it leaves some parting gifts you really didn't want,” Arthur told him, eyes unfocused, “I'm going to shower.”

“In diluted bleach,” Guinevere suggested.

“No, no,” Kay hastened to stop his brother, “bleach the clothes, hydrogen peroxide and hot water for your skin.”

“God I'd probably melt my skin off without you,” Arthur said with no trace of exaggeration.

“Uh,” Kay looked and Guinevere, “the rest of us will clean up whatever's left. What are you going to do with the sword?”

“I have a few ideas,” Arthur took it back towards his bedroom with him.


	39. Drawing in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain makes a sacrifice.

This exact sacrifice, Gawain thought on a selfish note as he took Bertilak's hand to revisit Avalon to finish the process, might help him feel better about how little he'd been a good brother. How he'd let his arrogance lead his actions. How his jealousy often blinded him.

Might let him feel like the Solar Knight again.

What he hadn't expected was the process to _hurt._

His own screams seems distant as the pain surged through his body, hotter than the fire Kay had summoned in his grief-induced rage. More terrifying than the moment he'd realized his bike was going to pitch him into the darkness.

What felt like raw magic seared through all the places he normally felt the sun's magic, made him wish he could peel his own skin off to let it free before it killed him.

He wasn't ready to die.

This wasn't the sacrifice he'd expected to make.

He thought he fell, or maybe it had been a slow, controlled descent to the ground. He had no idea what was going on. With his body. With his magics. With is life.

“Oh Gawain,” he heard Bertilak's voice.

–

The first thing he became aware of was the feeling of water against his bare skin.

The second thing he became aware of was the feeling of another body pressed along the length of his back, equally naked.

Gawain tried to sit up instinctively, hands hitting wet silt faster than he expected. He remembered, somewhere in his barely-reconnected mind, that this was how the waters of Avalon felt.

“Easy, easy,” he was told as two arms held him in place by wrapping themselves around his chest.

“What?” Gawain tried to ask something, tried to form a thought that felt like his own.

“Divine magic is difficult at first,” Bertilak told him.

Gawain laughed, the understatement funny for reasons he couldn't understand.

“What happened?” Gawain finally asked.

“You offered your soul,” Bertilak reminded him, “as Morgan had offered hers.”

“She had to go through that, too?” Gawain asked.

He felt Bertilak nod.

“You had to go through that at one point, didn't you?” Gawain realized.

Another nod.

“It's fucking awful,” Gawain tried to relax and curled against Bertilak as much as he could.

“I know,” Bertilak's tone was an empathetic one, “I know.”

–

Gawain woke up this time rather than had awareness return to him.

He had no idea he'd fallen asleep curled against Bertilak, the gentle waters flowing over them, or how long he'd been out in the land where neither day or night seemed to happen.

The land of in-betweens, he was starting to consider it.

“Hey,” Bertilak's voice had a tinge of fear to it.

“Hey,” Gawain offered a sleepy smile, “how long as I out?”

“On Earth, maybe a few hours,” Bertilak told him, “here, well, there is no time.”

“I had a feeling,” Gawain yawned.

“Did you mean it,” Bertilak asked, “that you wanted to stay on Earth?”

Gawain thought for a moment.

“I realize it means I will watch everyone grow old without me,” he said at last, “but yes. I do. I wish to stay close to the others, for as long as I can.”

Bertilak's entire form relaxed.

“Thank god,” Bertilak said reflexively, “I have missed Earth terribly.”

“Which god?” Gawain smirked, proud of his own joke.

“You, I think,” Bertilak's reply was serious.

Gawain may never get used to this, but he was okay with that possibility.


	40. An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camelot has risen again. Arthur has some thoughts for its future.

Everyone was crammed into Lancelot and Galehaut's house, including the dogs, waiting for everyone else to get back from the post-opening media frenzy.

Lancelot managed a few sentences of how the everything went before he started yawning, more mentally exhausted than physically.

Galehaut motioned for everyone to get off one of the couches and guided Lancelot to lie down on it.

He was asleep before Galehaut could ask if he wanted anything to eat or drink.

–

Guinevere pulled Arthur aside while Lancelot napped.

“Why is Excalibur in the car?” she whispered, more of a hiss than actual words.

“I have some plans for it,” he said.

“Everyone's already been knighted once,” she pointed out.

Arthur barked a laugh and then covered his mouth.

“I know,” he whispered.

–

Arthur asked Mordred to come help him with a few things. Mordred, confused but not sensing any immediate danger, followed Arthur to his car.

Arthur pulled Excalibur out of the trunk, swinging it wide to avoid damaging the car.

It would be no contest, he knew, modern metal alloy versus an otherworldly sword.

“Whoa, hey, I thought we were cool,” Mordred held up his hands and took a step back.

“Shit, sorry, no,” Arthur lowered the weapon, “that's not. No.”

Mordred immediately felt silly, but in his defense it had been a weird, long past several days.

Years.

Lives?

“Mordred,” Arthur looked at his son. He tried a few times to find words before opting to hand Excalibur to Mordred, handle-first.

“That's the talisman to rule Camelot with,” Mordred didn't reach out to take it, “Why are you giving it to me?”

“Over-simplified, but yes. And you've more than earned it,” Arthur's voice was level, clear, honest, “It's yours, if you'll take it.”

“I,” Mordred managed, “I'll be back in a moment.”

Arthur watched Mordred walk back inside, leaving the front door opened. He re-emerged a moment later, Galahad in tow.

“This is real?” Mordred asked Galahad, gesturing at Arthur and Excalibur, sword handle still angled where Mordred had been standing initially.

“What's going on?” Galahad asked. Mordred hadn't said anything before grabbing him by the wrist and leading him outside.

“He's giving it to me,” Mordred blurted out, Excalibur. Camelot.”

Galahad looked at Arthur with a look that asked a very clear question.

“It's time for the next generation to lead,” Arthur said, “and I choose to pass it to my son.”

“Real?” Mordred squeaked.

“Real,” Galahad sounded just as surprised.

“It's going to be a lot to adjust to,” Arthur said plainly, “and I really, really cannot describe how weird it's going to be the first time you grab Excalibur as King. But yes. Real.”

Mordred looked at Galahad like he'd have an answer.

Mordred looked back to Arthur.

Back to his father.

He took Excalibur as his own.

–

The first thing he heard was the beating of war drums in the distance.

Then he felt it.

Every King, every magician who'd stood beside him, every partner, every consort, every Knight who'd ever comprised Camelot.

Everything they'd ever known, every choice they'd ever made, was there just out of reach like a distant memory that promised to make itself available when he needed it most.

He gripped the pommel tighter.

Real.

So very real.

–

“What's going on out here?” Lancelot lead an exodus, the dogs running between people to join the rush.

They'd felt something shift, something intangible but so clearly an ancient magic they all ran towards it in an empowered panic.

“Arthur? Mordred?” Guinevere's voice came from somewhere near the front of the crowd, “Galahad?”

“Good news Jenny!” Arthur called back, “I'm retiring to Oregon's wine county!”

It was, Mordred thought, the strangest way Arthur could have told everyone he'd abdicated the throne.


End file.
